


Eat In or Take Away

by Bronstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Cas is in college, Dean wears glasses, Domestic, Explicit Language, Humour, I know, M/M, Romance, Romance Ensues, WIP, by the way, dean is in high school, its a lot of aus, its a wip for now but i'll up the warnings and such when things get heated further along, its sooooo domestic, they work at a coffee shop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1457653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bronstiel/pseuds/Bronstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New house, new school, new job. Dean's senior year is a little overwhelming already, and it's only just started. And it doesn't help that his coworker is a smoking hot college student by the name of Castiel who's never even dreamt of breaking the rules. But Dean's too busy looking after his brother to mack on some guy.</p><p>Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The bell jingled merrily when he placed his elbow against the glass and pushed the double-paned door. Since when did anyone who owned an establishment- be it a cheery corner café like this or otherwise- have a bell hung above the door. No one but old ladies who had cozy gardening supply shops or those weird hippy people who had their stores overflowing with herbal teas and 100% organic alpaca wool shawls that smelt like overwhelmingly sweet incense that practically raped your capillaries had bells above their doors. And, apparently, the owner of the _Slice of Heaven_ café.

Dean Winchester wrinkled his nose as he elbowed his way through the door marked push and heard the tinkle of the small brass bell set out from the doorframe as he stepped over the threshold. He looked up and scowled at it, the hood of his faded green jumper falling off his head and he felt the cool air wrap around his ears from where they had been blanketed by the warmth of the soft, well-worn fabric. He moseyed further into the café, taking out his earphones as he did so, and took a deep breath through his nose, smelling the saccharine scent of baked goods as well as the tang of bitter coffee in the air.

If it was necessary to use one word to describe _Slice of Heaven_ , Dean would use the word ‘quaint’. Maybe ‘cute’, Dean added to his thoughts, unsure of which one captured the café wholly.

The one-and-a-half solid walls were painted baby blue which was easy on the eye, and the roof was just a plain shade of off-white. The wall, or two walls, as it curved around to follow the corner of the road, which held the door Dean had just came through was completely glass, a giant window separated into six rectangular panes, the one closest to Dean housing the door he had just came through.

The dining area held several tables of varying size. Some booths were set up along the single completely solid wall, dark grey bonded leather covering the seats. The chairs had the same leather covering the cushion and backs, and all the tables were of the same marble as the counter. The tabletops were fixed to the floor by one or two steel legs, depending on the size of the table, and the leg was either set into the middle of the tabletop for a table for two or at either end of the marble slate.

Directly ahead of the door was the front counter, attached to the only solid half-wall. It was marble, two-inches thick and was so smooth it shined, with one grey cash register seated to the far right of the cream expanse, leaving a foot between it and the wall for a space to walk between the back area and the front. The counter was seated atop a glass display case that catered to three shelves, all stocked with products as well as the base of the unit. The breads, including raspberry-and-pear loaf, pumpkin loaf, and banana bread were sitting on individual plates home to three slices of each loaf on the bottom of the display case. The next shelf up was home to croissants dusted with icing sugar and chocolate sauce, severed in half with strawberries peeking out from the middle, or savoury ones with ham and cheese spilling from the crescent shape. Also on that row were sandwiches, a mixture of sourdough Turkish breads and thick fat wholemeal slices containing chicken schnitzels and pesto or turkey, mayonnaise, and lettuce. The shelf above that one had cake slices, ranging from a moist, dark devil’s food cake to pale creamy white-chocolate cheesecake. A cupcake was set on its own plate between each cake slice, with a selection from chocolate mud to blueberry. On the last shelf were the individual products; lemon frans dusted with icing sugar, mini meringues set in a little circle alternating between the pastel colours of pink, white and blue. There were cookies with huge chocolate chips in them as well as a varying pick of slices, from coconut and cherry slice to a miniature apple crumble.

Or at least, there had been yesterday, when Dean had come in with Sam to drop off his CV. Today, the shelves were empty and gleaming silver, ready to be stocked again when the café opened tomorrow morning.

On top of the counter were three mugs and three takeaway cups, both displays showing visibly the size difference between small, medium and large. Where the counter met the wall was the sugar and artificial sweetener, both in separate sides of the same silver cylinder divided in the middle, and another cylinder was next to them holding long-handled plastic cutlery.

The counter only took up two thirds of a wall, meeting the blue nicely, and behind it was a coffee machine with shining steam wands with a grinder sitting next to it. The last third of the wall was partly home to a door leading to the publicly accessible bathroom (a sign tacked onto the door said it was only available to paying customers), and was otherwise the same unmarred baby blue as the other walls. A third door behind the counter to the right of the grinder presumably lead into the kitchen area where the rest of the delicacies were stocked, as well as where the spare product could be found.

After the bell’s chimes had faded, the door behind the counter opened and a short man with blond hair waltzed out dressed in a dark pinstriped button down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, black pants, and an apron looped around his neck and wrapped around his waist. The apron, apparently, was just for show and he had a healthy dusting of flour on his shirt and pants, and Dean thought he even spotted some on the man’s cheek.

The man grinned when he noticed him and Dean was quick to wipe all remains of the scowl off of his face. “Dean?” He asked, grabbing a tea-towel from under the counter and wiping his hands.

“Yes, sir, that’s me,” Dean edged further into the shop but stopped a respectable distance from the counter.

“Right,” The man’s grin remained on his face as he walked out from behind the counter. “Welcome to _Slice of Heaven_ ,” He gave an airy wave of his hand at the room, like maybe Dean didn’t know where he was. “I’m Gabriel Novak. I own the store and am also the general manager. And the chef,” Gabriel seemed quite proud of himself, and Dean was slightly impressed. That was a lot of jobs for one person.

“Have a seat, kiddo,” Gabriel gestured to one of the tables meant for two people and Dean slid into the accompanying seat. The manager sat in the chair opposite him and took a little notebook out of the breast pocket on his shirt, followed by a pen, and placed them both on the table. He then placed his elbows on the marble surface but leaving his forearms and hands vertical so, Dean presumed, he could gesture freely.

“So,” Gabriel cocked an eyebrow at Dean, who shifted nervously in his seat. The night before, Dean had googled the most common questions asked in a job interview and then gotten Sammy to play interviewer so he could practice for today. He felt reasonably confident, but you could never be quite sure what questions the interviewer would ask.

“Tell me about yourself,” Gabriel glanced at Dean’s worn jumper’s frayed sleeves and the black cord around his neck that disappeared underneath the collar of his shirt.

Dean breathed an invisible sigh of relief. He had practiced this question with Sam last night. “I’m seventeen,” Dean placed his feet more securely on the ground, finding comfort in the slight thumps his boots made when they came in further contact with the floorboards. “I just moved here from Indiana with my dad and my little brother, though I was actually born here in Kansas,”

He saw Gabriel raise his eyebrows at that statement. He waited for the inevitable ‘where’s your mother’ question, but instead the manager asked, “Were you born here in Kansas City?”

“Uh, Lawrence, actually, so not too far away,” Dean answered. Gabriel nodded and flipped the notebook open to a blank page and scribbled a note in handwriting so small and slanted Dean couldn’t read it upside down.

“Are these the only moves your family has undertaken?” Gabriel looked like he already knew the answer, and Dean tried and failed not to grimace.

“We’ve moved a lot,” Dean scratched the back of his head and began tapping his heel against the floorboards, stopping instantly when the noise he was making registered in his ears. “But dad said we were staying here for my senior year,” He looked back at Gabriel, trying not to sound pleading, and was reassured by the sight of him nodding. He took a deep breath in and tried to feel calmer.

“Is this your first job?” Gabriel twirled his hands in the air, again indicating to the shop.

“No,” Dean sat up straighter and put his hands in his lap. “I worked for a few months as a waiter in a restaurant in Denver,” He smiled when Gabriel nodded again and marked his notebook.

“I’m presuming you left because you had to move?” The manager asked.

“You presumption is correct,” Dean bobbed his head in a little nod and grinned across the table.

“Great,” Gabriel lowered his arms and began beating a rhythm softly into the tabletop with one hand as he made a few more notes with the other. “And you have no problem working with other people?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you have any trouble lifting?”

“No, sir.”

“Any trouble standing? Bending? Reaching?”

“No, sir,”

“Excellent,” Gabriel beamed across the table and made a few small notes before leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. “You said you’re in your senior year?”

“That’s right,” Dean stopped. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

“Nah,” The manager grinned at Dean’s slight flair of panic. “You look like you’ll be able to balance your workload,”

“I can!” Dean insisted.

“Alright, alright, I believe you,” Gabriel untucked his hands from behind his head and raised them in a mock-surrender position. Dean felt a flare of hope and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jumper.

“So,” Gabe sat straight again and reached for his notebook, glancing at his page of notes. His amber eyes flickered back and forth as he scanned down the small page. “That’s the end of the Q&A sesh,” He remarked, and his chair scraped against the floorboards as he stood. Dean followed his lead and rose also.

“Thank you,” Dean replied, though he wasn’t sure if Gabriel even heard his reply as his eyes were still glued to his page.

“Now I’ll be back in a tick.” Dean frowned in confusion and shifted his weight from foot to foot as Gabriel raised a hand to him. “Stay here.” The manager walked back behind the counter. “Don’t steal anything!” He called over his shoulder as he passed through the door and out of Dean’s sight.

Dean rolled his shoulders and looked around. Since it was a Sunday, the café wasn’t technically open, but he had dropped his resumé in yesterday and gotten a call that same afternoon asking him to come by at 9am the next day for an interview. Dean guessed because it was a small business that they got word around quickly.

He didn’t know how long Gabriel would be, so he took his phone from his pocket and punched in a quick text to Sam about how he thought the interview went well. Just as he tapped ‘send’, the bell behind him jingled and he stiffened. Turning, he saw a guy, maybe a little older than he was come through the door, looking down at his iPod and poking at it, earbuds still firmly in place.

Dean swallowed. He didn’t know what to do; did he tell this guy that the store was shut or wait till Gabriel got back? The stranger walked further into the café, still inspecting his iPod, so he didn’t realise it was closed, nor did he see Dean watching him. Dean shifted uneasily again and decided to spare the guy the awkwardness of getting kicked out by the manager.

“Hey dude,” Dean stepped in the guy’s path, forcing the stranger to notice him. He jerked his head up, staring at Dean almost angrily, surprise and wariness displaying themselves sharply on his face. Dean got lost for a moment in the shocking blue of the guy’s irises before he realised he had to speak again.

“Sorry man,” Dean coughed and the stranger took out his earbuds and tilted his head as Dean spoke to him. His dark eyebrows lowered further until he was positively glowering at Dean. “The place is shut on Sundays.” Dean tried to sound confident but the guy was trying to set him on fire with his gaze, he was sure of it, and that made his sentence end in a lilt, like a question would.

When the guy didn’t move, Dean’s hesitation turned to irritation. “Look, buddy-”

“I am no _buddy_ of yours,” The guy made air-quotes around the word ‘buddy’ with one hand, the other closing around the iPod and shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. Dean gave an exasperated sigh and matched the guy’s glare with one of his own.

The guy didn’t _look_ like a robber. He was wearing dark skinny jeans with blue converse on his feet, a navy woolen pullover with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and the collar of a white polo shirt was poking over the top. His skin was a light tan though there were purple smudges under his blue eyes, and standing straight, he was only an inch or two shorter than Dean. His hair was the darkest shade of brown Dean had ever seen and was all over the place, like the dude had just walked through a hurricane to get to the café.

“ _Dude_ ,” Dean narrowed his eyes. “You can’t be in here!”

“No,” The voice that came out of the stranger’s pale, chapped lips was low and full of fury. “ _You_ cannot be in here. This store is _closed_ , and by being here, you are breaking and entering and I will not hesitate to-”

“Cassie!” Gabriel banged through the door holding a piece of paper in one hand and an empty plate in the other. “I thought I heard your voice!”

“Gabriel,” The guy- Cassie?- rumbled angrily as he looked around Dean to the manager. “Who is this?” He asked crisply, though some of the anger had faded from his face now that Gabriel was in the room.

“This,” Gabriel grinned like a madman and walked to Dean’s side, hooking an arm around the younger man’s neck and yanking him down to the manager’s own height. Dean let out a huff of air as he was almost bent in half but fought the urge to throw off the shorter man, as he was still unemployed and Gabriel was his chance at a job here. “Is your new coworker.”

“He _works_ here?” Dean and Cassie(?) said at the same time, and they both paused for a beat before turning to look at each other incredulously. Only after his back twinged did Dean realise he was still in a kind of headlock and had been staring at his new _coworker_ for an awkward amount of time.

Ducking out from under Gabriel’s arm, Dean actually realised what the manager had said. “Wait, I work here?” He turned and faced Gabriel and grinned.

“You sure do, kiddo.” Gabriel answered, and then flapped the paper he was holding at Dean. “You just gotta fill out this availability form and I’ll work out your roster. You can start next week.”

“Sweet!” Dean cheered, shutting his eyes in a moment of relief mixed with triumph. He then took the paper from Gabriel and moved to sit at a table. “I can fill it in now, if you’d like?” He offered.

Gabriel smiled, though Cassie’s face remained stony. “Sounds great,” The manager replied, taking a step back towards the counter. “If you want, Mr Grumpy there can make you a coffee,” He indicated to the dark-haired guy standing silently by. At Gabriel’s words, his scowl deepened.

“He doesn’t even know how to make _coffee_? Gabriel-” He started, but he was cut off.

“Castiel.” Gabriel’s smile didn’t even dim a bit. “He’ll learn. You can teach him,” Castiel began to protest, but the manager quickly trotted back through the door behind the counter, not even trying to stifle his giggles.

There was an awkward silence. Dean looked up at the guy- _Castiel_ \- and found him staring right back, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes narrowed the tiniest bit.

“I’m Dean,” He thought the introduction might quell the awkward atmosphere.

“I am Castiel. Hello, Dean,” The hunched shoulders lowered a bit though the scowl was still etched onto the hard lines of Castiel’s face.

“Hey yourself,” Dean quipped. “You don’t have a pen, do ya?” He felt himself slip from his formal speech patterns into one more regular now that he was out of the interview as well as speaking to someone closer to his age.

“Oh,” Castiel’s brow furrowed. “I’ll get you one,” He walked behind the counter and disappeared from sight for a moment as he crouched, but reappeared again soon enough. “Black alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” Dean was amused. He was pretty sure he had never in his life been asked what pen colour he preferred to use until now.

Castiel came back around and passed him the pen, glancing down at the sheet Dean had put face-up on the table. Dean began to write, but after he had filled out his name he realised Castiel was still standing right by his shoulder.

“Need something?” He asked, looking up at the other guy.

“No,” Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed and he looked at Dean quizzically, like he was the idiot for asking stupid questions.

Dean sighed. Of course he got stuck working with the socially stunted weirdo. He elected to ignore Castiel in the hope that he would get bored of standing two centimetres from Dean and go away. With one hand he pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and pointer finger, whilst using the other to scribble down a satisfactory amount of hours he could be available.

Castiel did seem to get bored after another minute of looming over Dean’s shoulder and wandered off. Dean was frowning at the paper when he heard Castiel say, “How do you take it?”

He looked up, eyebrows still wrinkled in a frown, lip still pinched in between his fingers. Castiel was standing by the coffee machine and looking at him, a mug in one hand, a carton of milk in the other.

“Hm?” Dean rumbled, tugging his lip absently.

“Your coffee. How do you take it?” The other boy clarified, shaking the mug slightly to indicate further what he was talking about.

“Oh,” Dean said, taking his hand away from his mouth to speak. “Just black please,”

“Sugar?”

“A couple will do, thanks.” He returned to filling out boxes on the form. In another minute he heard the rasp of the steam wand and the rattle of the bean grinder and smiled. He would be learning how to do that soon enough, even if Castiel was teaching him. Dean figured he could put up with some grumpy bugger with eyes so blue they were almost annoying if he got payed for it.

Castiel came over with two mugs and sat down opposite Dean, being careful to place the mug he offered aside the paper rather than on it. Dean thanked him and signed the form before capping the pen and sitting up straight, meeting Castiel’s stare.

“I don’t like unspecific quantities, so I brought you over three sugars and a spoon,” He droned. “Feel free to add your preferred amount.”

Dean snorted. “Two would’ve been fine, dude,” He said, tapping the sugar down the bottom of the two packets before ripping them open and dumping the contents into his cup. He then shrugged and opened the third packet, only adding half though, and started to stir with the long plastic spoon he had been given.

Castiel cast him a _look_ when he added the half and Dean made a face at him, to which he got no response. “What’re you drinking then?” Dean grumbled, taking a sip. It was delicious coffee, but it didn’t say anything about the Castiel’s skills. All he did was grind and add water. It was also burning hot, so that sapped some of the flavour too.

“Vanilla latté,” His companion answered, drawing one foot up onto the seat so he could rest his chin on his knee while they waited for their coffee to cool.

“We do flavours here?” Dean groaned, tapping his fingers on the edge of his mug to see if it was a drinkable temperature yet. It wasn’t.

“You’ll learn,” Castiel gazed at him over his knee. Dean was almost flattered, seeing as not ten minutes ago the guy was complaining that he was hired even though he didn’t know a coffee filter from a piece of paper.

Dean murmured an agreement and took another tentative sip of coffee. It had cooled enough now that it didn’t burn on the way down, and he hummed at the taste. “So, you at school?” He asked after he had swallowed. A familiar face, even one as sullen as Castiel’s, would make his transition into senior year all the easier.

“College,” Came the reply, and Dean’s meager hopes crumbled. He smiled, though, and the conversation petered out and they sipped their coffee in silence.

Dean was just upending his mug when Gabriel came banging back into the room, a ceramic plate with a slice of cake on it in one hand and a piece of clothing wrapped in plastic stacked on top in the other.

“Deano!” Gabriel called out as he made his way over. “This should be about your size,” He placed the package on the table in front of Dean, who took the plastic off and looked at it with interest. It was a navy polo shirt with a sky blue trimming on the collar, sleeves and the hem as well as the stitching. A little logo was stitched on the right that said _Slice of Heaven_ in the same light hue and the same was in bigger lettering across the back.

Dean stood and held it up to his torso. “Looks like it’ll fit,” He grinned at Gabriel. “No dorky hats or anything to go with it?”

Gabriel turned to Castiel with a light in his eyes but the dark-haired man just said “No,” and drained his cup. The manager turned back to Dean, who had sat down again and sighed.

“Cassie say’s we’ll look to much like a McDonald’s or something if we get hats,” He moaned. “Even though I try to convince him otherwise, he says he’d rather me fire him than wear a hat to work.”

“So fire him,” Dean shrugged, ribbing up the dark-haired male. Castiel glared up at him over the rim of his mug but didn’t say anything.

“I can’t fire my own brother!” Gabriel wailed. “Mother would roll over in her grave!” He put the back of a hand on his brow and heaved a mournful sigh. Dean blinked, but before he could dwell on it, Castiel spoke.

“Plus I’m your _only_ member of staff now that Balthazar has left,” He raised his dark eyebrows at Gabriel. Dean wanted to know what was up with all the ridiculous names. Maybe that was why Castiel was so against him being hired. His name was too average.

Dean assumed Balthazar was the pretentious blond Brit he had given his resumé to yesterday, and was glad that guy didn’t work here any more. Dean almost scratched his own eyes out just having to exchange a few sentences with the man. Having to work with him would’ve been torture. Dean must have caught him on his last shift.

“Try the cake,” Gabriel ignored Castiel’s comment and gestured for both of them to grab the forks he’d chucked onto the table as well as the cake he’d just put down (more gently). “It’s a jaffa cake, not on the shelf yet. I’m experimenting.”

Dean eagerly grabbed a piece of cutlery and snarfed up the triangular tip of the cake. He closed his eyes and moaned when the flavours hit his tongue. He had a feeling he’d get fat if all the food tasted like this. He wouldn’t be able to resist.

When he opened his eyes, Gabriel was peering at the cake shrewdly while Castiel was watching him, his own fork between his chapped lips. He slid the fork out as Dean blushed, and chewed, looking away from Dean to Gabriel.

“It’s not your best,” He said once he’d swallowed, tongue swiping the corners of his mouth to check he hadn’t left a mess.

“ _What_?” Gabriel and Castiel both looked at Dean, Gabriel looking gleeful while Castiel was neutral.

“What?” Castiel parroted, though in a deadpan compared to Dean’s screech, and not to mock, but to inquire.

“This is delicious! Gabe, if you made pies, I would never leave.” Dean nodded, like that would somehow further his point. “I’m not a cake person, but I would eat the shit out of this.”

When the brothers exchanged a look, Dean swallowed the rest of his words. “Uh, sorry. I shouldn’t swear…” He said it almost like a question, not sure if that’s what they were conspiring over.

“What? No,” Gabriel waved a hand at Dean. “Just don’t swear in front of the customers and you’ll be fine.” Dean relaxed and took another forkful of cake. Castiel did the same, though his was marginally smaller than Dean’s, much to the latter’s amusement. Castiel looked like he could use some fattening up, the way his clothes hung off him.

Once they’d finished the cake (Dean had eaten three quarters of it, much to Gabriel’s delight), Dean stood. “So, if you don’t need me for anything else, I might head off.” He said, already reaching into the pocket of his jumper for his headphones.

“You’re free to go, Deano,” Gabriel waved him away, and Castiel looked amused at Dean’s apparent dislike for Gabriel’s nickname. “I’ll call you when I’ve organised your shifts.”

“Thanks for your time. And your cake.” Dean added, backing out of the shop. “Oh and thanks for the coffee, Cas,” He nodded to the two before slipping his headphones in, the first chords of AC/DC’s _You Shook Me All Night Long_ already playing so he didn’t have to listen to that infernal bell jingle as he exited.

“Cas?” Gabriel repeated as the door swung shut, jostling the bell for a second time. Castiel shrugged and began gathering plates, cups, and cutlery and moving behind the counter with his load.

“It’s better than Cassie,” He acknowledged, face burning as he shouldered his way through the door, intending to do the dishes. He shut his eyes and breathed out heavily through his nose in the scant seconds of privacy he had, before moving to the sink and listening to Gabriel barge through the door behind him.

“So,” He heard his brother say from behind him and he could almost feel him leering.

“So what?” Castiel sighed, dumping the dishes in the sink and waiting for the inevitable.

“Dean was nice,”

“Gabriel, you succeeding in sounding nonchalant is like someone walking on the sun. It’s impossible.” Castiel turned to face the chef with a frown and one hand on his hip.

Gabriel shrugged. “He was very pretty though, hey?” He waggled his eyebrows at Castiel, who grimaced and turned to the sink.

“Gabriel, I hope you didn’t just hire him to look at. He’s not a rent boy,” There was a sputter behind him and Castiel looked over his shoulder to see Gabriel red in the face.

“You can’t just say things like that Cassie!” Gabriel’s words were chiding but he sounded like someone had just given him a free lollipop. He let out a long laugh while Castiel turned the tap on the sink, trying to figure out what he’d said wrong.

“I don’t-”

“Of course you don’t.” Gabriel chuckled and moved towards the rest of the jaffa cake he had taken Dean and Castiel’s slice from earlier. “Now seriously, this cake…”

It seemed that Gabriel had let the subject of Dean Winchester drop for now, and Castiel put a squirt of green detergent in the sink, watching it froth up into white bubble towers. He dumped the plates in and started scrubbing, only half-listening to Gabriel pratter on about his new cake.

He pursed his lips. Cas. He liked it, but, when he thought about it, would he like it as much if it wasn’t said in an accent that was southern and drawling, if the name didn’t fall from plush lips, if it wasn’t accompanied by bright green eyes, if-

“ _Hello, Castiel_! Anyone home?” Gabriel, swung a tea towel at the side of Castiel’s head, leaving it to drape over the brunette’s ear. Castiel didn’t startle, but he rolled his lips peevishly and huffed.

“What?” He asked.

“Were you even listening?” Gabriel sounded about as hurt as if Castiel had just swung around and physically wounded him. “I spill my heart out to you and you don’t even _listen_. My own brother. I can’t work like this where I’m unappreciated. You think I can-”

“Just sell the cake for a week, Gabriel, and if people like it then keep it.” Castiel didn’t even turn around, just scrubbed the cake crumbs off the white china. He angrily shoved all previous thoughts from his mind and worked on cleaning.

“I knew I could count on you, _Cas_ ,”

“Shut up,”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean trudged through the front door and almost immediately tripped over a cardboard box. Sighing, he placed the side of his foot against it and scooched it across the floor until it was pressed against the wall, out of anyone’s way.

“I’m back!” He called out, toeing off his boots by the front door. It was almost tradition that for the first few days in a new house they tried to keep it as clean as possible, taking off their shoes at the door and even lining them up in pairs beside the frame. But soon enough they forgot or couldn’t be bothered and the rule was forgotten.

“Dean!” He heard Sam call from the living room, but he detoured through the kitchen to take a few gulps from the carton of juice in the fridge before joining him.

“Hey, little brother,” Dean fluffed Sam’s hair up as he dropped onto the couch next to him, making the pillow Sam was seated on rise. Sam _tsk_ ed and batted Dean’s hands away, smoothing his hair back down onto his forehead. He was sitting cross-legged on the ugliest couch ever made, a book propped on his calves. His brown hair was flaring out to the sides and his hazel eyes were narrowed as he returned to the words in his lap.

“So how’d it go?” Sam asked, closing the book he was reading but sliding one finger between the pages to mark his spot.

Dean grinned at him “I got the job,”

“Dean!” Sam mirrored his smile and punched him on the shoulder. “Nice work! I knew you wouldn’t blow it!”

Dean huffed. “Thanks, bitch,” Sam punched him again and returned to his book, while Dean switched on the TV.

After a couple of hours of monotonous daytime TV, Dean reached over and with one finger he flipped Sam’s book shut, receiving a furious _hey_ from his younger brother as he lost his place. “That was for school, Dean!”

“Dude, it’s not like I ripped it up,” Dean snorted. “Where’s dad?”

Sam started angrily sorting through pages until he got back to his place. “Out. He said he’d be back by eight.”

“Right,” Dean sighed and put a hand over Sam’s page, pretending to look out the window as he covered the words in the book so his brother couldn’t read.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam whined, drawing out the ‘e’. Dean chuckled.

“You wanna eat?” He asked, still playing coy with the book but switching his gaze from the window to his brother’s furious glare. Sam slammed the book closed over Dean’s hand in response. “ _Shit_ , _Sam_!” Dean spat, ripping his hand out from between the pages and cradling it against his chest. He glared at Sam who just wrinkled his nose snootily at his big brother.

“I could eat,” Sam’s eyes dropped again to the book in his lap. Dean took a measured breath in and stood, stomping into the kitchen, though it didn’t affect anyone much seeing as he was only in socks.

Ten minutes later Dean walked back into the lounge room holding two plates. He dumped one on Sam’s book, though it only made Sam huff a laugh at the fact that Dean was still pissed at him. They chewed in silence, Sam eating politely as his sandwich was cut diagonally in half while Dean shovelled food into his face one handed.

“You want something to drink?” Dean put the last bit of sandwich in his mouth and stood, grabbing Sam’s empty plate as he walked towards the kitchen.

“Juice?” He asked, and Dean couldn’t say no.

“So you ready for school tomorrow?” Dean passed Sam a glass of juice and sat down again, crossing his ankles out in front of him. “First day and all.”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve moved schools, Dean,” Sam turned his hazel eyes on his brother as he sighed. “It’s already October, it’s not even the start of the school year,”

“So? We’re only a month late.” Dean watched as Sam cast his eyes downward. “Hey. Dad said this was our last move for a _whole_ _year_ , Sam. That’s good, right?” He bumped Sam’s shoulder with his own, mindful that Sam was holding a cup of juice.

“Right,” Sam agreed. He sipped his beverage quietly, while Dean glanced at the book. It was _To Kill A Mockingbird_ , and Sam was almost at the end. The kid sure read fast.

“Good book?” He asked, scanning a few lines. “Scout is a cool name.”

“It’s very good,” Sam downed the last gulp and set the cup on the ground before moving the book from where it was balanced on his calves to his right knee so Dean could see it closer. “It really brings to light the racial injustice of the 30s, especially in the South. It also presents a differential view on gender roles since-”

“I didn’t ask for the plot, Sammy,” Dean chuckled, cutting his little brother off mid-sentence. Sam shook his head.

“Being a lawyer would be interesting,” He said. Dean’s laughter died out as he checked Sam was serious. When he saw the grim set of his brother’s jaw, like he was waiting for the bad repercussions of his words, he snorted again, although his heart was swelling with pride.

“You want to be a lawyer?” Dean clarified, arching one eyebrow. Sam met his eyes with determination.

“I think it would be cool.” He said, taking a deep breath in.

“Sam,” Dean grinned, “That’s brilliant.” Sam let go of his breath in a big _whoosh_.

“Really?”

“Yeah!” It was Dean’s turn to punch his brother in the shoulder. “Just don’t up and leave for law school without telling me, deal?” He joked.

“Deal,” Sam beamed, leaning into Dean and pressing their shoulders together for a second before returning to his book. Dean chewed on his lip and smiled before getting up and deciding it was probably a good idea that he prepared for school tomorrow as well.

* * *

 “I’m home!” Dean heard the front door whine on its hinges from the kitchen where he sat at the table and the creak of floorboards as his father took off his shoes in the hall.

“We’re in the kitchen!” He called, standing up to go to the fridge, swiping the container of spaghetti and meat sauce out to put it in the microwave just as John Winchester strode into the room.

“Hey dad,” Sam said from his seat at the table, _To Kill A Mockingbird_ propped against a mug in front of him on the weathered wood. The book only had a few pages to go, and Dean was entertaining the thought of reading it, since he had gotten Sam to explain the plot to him over their light meal.

“Hey Sammy!” John ruffled his youngest’s hair, and, just like with Dean, Sam batted his hand away to smooth it back down on his forehead.

“ _Da-ad_ ,” Sam complained, rolling his eyes. The microwave beeped and Dean took out the container to stir it before putting it back in so it heated up evenly.

“Dean,” John moved towards his eldest and patted him on the shoulder. “How’re you, son?” He asked.

“Good, I’m good,” Dean answered, tugging on the sleeves of his jumper. “I got that job I told you about,” He looked at John out of the corner of his eye, but relaxed a little when he saw his father smile.

“I’m glad, Dean. Well done,” The microwave beeped and John opened it, getting the pasta out, shuffling it from hand to hand as the container was hot. “Did you cook this?” He asked as he made it to the table, plunking the container down onto the wood.

“Yes,” Dean responded as he passed John a fork. His father thanked him but didn’t say anything else, though Dean took it as a compliment as his father ate with gusto. “Do you want a drink with that, sir?” He asked after a beat, already reaching for a cup.

“Just water will be fine,” John answered, and Dean passed him a glass full. “Take a seat, son,” John gestured from Dean to the empty seat at the table, and Dean sat immediately.

“Now,” John took a gulp of water before setting it onto the table. “You boys have school tomorrow.” It wasn’t a question, but both boys nodded anyway. “Sam, there’s a girl called Jo Harvelle in your year. I know her parents, her mum runs The Roadhouse, which is that restaurant down the road.”

“Right,” Sam bobbed his head again.

“They’re good people. I knew Jo’s daddy, he was a good man. Ellen’s husband is a good guy too. She knows how to pick ‘em.” John took another mouthful of water before sticking his fork in his pasta. “You’re to go to them if anything goes wrong during the week, okay?”

“But dad, we don’t know them,” Dean added in.

“Dean,” John threw him a tired glance before setting his eyes back on his meal. That was apparently the end of his rebuttal against his son’s argument, because he continued as if Dean hadn’t said anything.

“Ellen runs The Roadhouse, and she’ll be more than happy to help you out, once you tell her who you are.” John scratched his beard. “Got that, boys?”

“Got it,” Sam and Dean said, though Dean sounded slightly defeated, whilst Sam sounded almost uncaring.

“Good. You’re free to go then,” John waved his hand and Sam returned to his book. Dean tried not to scrape his chair against the floor as he stood and left the room.

They were lucky that in this house they had three bedrooms, so each person got their own room. Dean’s room was just big enough for his double bed, a bedside table and a desk which doubled as a chest of drawers on one side. On his desk was a laptop and a collection of CDs, as well as a bundle of wires that ranged from laptop chargers to spare headphones. The walls were a light grey that contrasted with the carpet’s colour of dark green, though it was as thick and soft as hell, so Dean wasn’t going to complain just because it didn’t match the walls.

Dean flopped onto his bed and checked his phone to see that he had one new message from an unknown number. He opened it to find it was from Gabriel, saying that he sent him an email about his shifts.

He lay where he was for a few more seconds before groaning and sitting up, listening to the conversation drifting in from the kitchen for a moment (“A lawyer? Sam, that’s _great_.”) before standing and walking to his desk to grab his laptop. He brought it back to his bed and laid down again, snoozing a little as he waited for the outdated system to boot up.

There was drool on the duvet when the computer beeped to tell him it was ready, but it didn’t faze Dean, who already knew he was a messy sleeper. He navigated into the email address he had given Gabriel and saw the required message (subjected as _Slice of Heaven; Dean Winchester, Earth needs you to Assemble!_ ), clicking onto it and wrinkling his nose.

The font was coloured an annoying shade of blue that was already hurting Dean’s eyes, so, sighing, he reached for the bedside table and plucked his glasses out of their case, scrunching up his nose as he put them on.

Dean was not a fan of his glasses. He was thankful he only needed them to assist his eyes in focusing when he had large chunks of text to read at one time, but even then, in the sparse times he needed them, the wide frames sat uncomfortably on his face and the bridge was just a little too big so they slid down a tiny amount that had Dean pushing them up every minute or two.

The glasses had thick frames that were a shade of green so dark it was almost black. The lenses were curved but not totally round and were only used in assisting Dean to focus. Excluding the lenses, hinges, and screws, they were completely made of cheap plastic, as they were bought from a chemist down the road from the diner the Winchesters had been eating lunch at during their move from Indiana to Kansas where Dean had dropped his previous pair and they’d cracked. Because they were so cheap, the hinges creaked whenever Dean used them, so he usually got more frustrated than benefited whenever he folded or unfolded the temples

Once his glasses were on, Dean began reading the email. After the initial _welcome_ message that was punctuated with way too many emoticons to be professional, the email went on to explain the rules and expectations of _Slice of Heaven_ as well as how to correctly wear the uniform (there was a bracketed note saying they had run out of aprons and were ordering one more in for Dean so he would receive his the day of his first shift) and a reminder to “bring all your new friends so we can sell more food and make a profit and stuff”.

Gabriel had given him that week off, saying he should have time to settle into school and the town, but then rostered him on for three afternoons during the week and most of Saturday, starting at 7am. He’d also told Dean to save the number he’d texted him on into his phone as sometimes Gabriel would contact him though that, as well as adding Castiel’s number, saying if Dean couldn’t get ahold of him then Castiel was his next best bet.

Gabriel finished his email with:

 

_Lots of Love,_

_the new coordinator of all your free time,_

_Gabriel Novak_

_xoxoxo_

 

               Dean made a face but decided that having a fun employer was better than a snobbish one, so he saved Gabriel’s number into his phone before adding Castiel’s as well.

               Rolling onto his back, Dean shut his eyes and heaved a deep breath in. He rested for a few minutes before he heard the door creak and the light pattering of feet. The edge of his bed sank and someone perched on the side, and he cracked one eye open to see Sam staring at him.

“Hey, Squirt,” Dean rumbled.

“Hey,” Sam replied. “You ready for school tomorrow?”

“Totally,”

“You haven’t done anything for school, have you.” It wasn’t a question, but Dean answered it anyway.

“Nah, man.” Was his reply. He shut his eye again.

“ _Dean_ ,” He smiled as Sam exasperatedly dragged the ‘e’ out in his name.

“Let it go, Sam,” Dean chuckled softly.

“Fine.” Dean could almost _hear_ the pout Sam was most likely making. “Who’s Gabriel?”

“My new manager,” Dean wrinkled his nose under his glasses. “You shouldn’t be reading my emails anyway. Isn’t that invasion of privacy or something, Mr Lawyer?”

He felt Sam pluck his glasses from his face and heard them be placed back on his bedside table. “Probably,” Sam agreed. “Who’s Castiel? No, don’t answer that. Tell me who names their kid _Castiel_.”

“I don’t even know. I’m pretty sure he hates me already though, I accused him of being a robber when I met him today. He’s my _co-worker_. Gabriel’s brother, I think.”

“You accused- wait, you _think_ he’s his brother?”

“I was more focused on getting a job than familial relations, Sam,”

There was silence for a minute before Sam said, “Dad said he’s gonna be back Friday night,”

“That’s a day earlier than usual,” Dean flexed his hand where it was resting on his stomach.

“Twelve hours, technically.” Sam sniffed. “He also said to make sure you know where your school is.”

“Excuse him, I know my way around.” Dean pretended to be affronted, and was rewarded with a quiet huff of laughter from Sam.

“Do you know your way to the high school, Dean?” Sam poked his leg.

“Yep.” Dean thought for a moment. “Your school is on the way, so I can walk you, even.”

“Really?” Sam sounded disbelieving.

“Yep,” Dean repeated. “Would I lie to you?”

“Yes,”

“You answered that awful quick, Squirt,”

“You always lie, Dean.”

“The point is, Sam, that it’s late and you should be going to sleep.”

Sam made a sound of annoyance. “It’s only just past nine, Dean,”

“You have school tomorrow,” Dean grinned as Sam slapped his stomach with an open hand.

“Well so do you!” Sam fumed.

“I’m older than you, so-”

“You should _both_ go to bed.” Dean’s eyes snapped open as John spoke. He was slouched against the doorframe, arms crossed, but a small smile graced his face.

“Yes sir,” Dean responded immediately, sitting up and scrubbing his eyes with the back of one hand. He nudged Sam in the back with his knee in order to get him moving and swung his feet to the floor.

“But I’m not tired,” Sam mumbled, but the defiance was there. Dean saw his dad take a breath in and cringed.

“Sam we have a big day tomorrow,” Dean cut in quickly, softly pushing his brother towards the door. When Sam glared at him, Dean gave him a _look_ and pushed him a little harder. “Please, Sam,” Dean didn’t want a fight tonight. He didn’t want Sam to go to sleep angry, or their dad to leave behind bad waters when he left in the morning.

“Okay Dean,” Sam relented and trotted off to the bathroom to wash up. Dean shrugged at John’s exasperated face and rushed off to join his brother, trying to forget the sight of his dad tiredly scrubbing his face with his hands.

* * *

 “Dean! Are you ready to go?” Sam pounded on Dean’s bedroom door and yelled into the wood. “You better be! I’m not being late on my first day because you’re still asleep!”

“Re _lax_ Sammy,” Dean yanked the door open and watched Sam fall through the jamb because he’d been leaning on it. He shifted his bag more securely onto his back and added, “I’m all set.”

“Good,” Sam grumbled, tugging Dean’s jacket to get him moving. “Let’s hit it then,”

Locking the front door behind them, they started off down the cracked driveway onto the sidewalk. After ten minutes they arrived at Sam’s middle school, and Dean waved him off yelling to him to find “that Jo girl”, much to Sam’s red-faced embarrassment. Once Sam was out of sight, Dean backtracked down to the main road and started to walk to the high school, which was in the opposite direction to the middle school.

He arrived just as the bell rang, and everyone was dispersing as he strolled into the school. The lady in the office was on the phone when he got there so he took a seat in an uncomfortable plastic chair and waited till she was finished before approaching the window which separated them. She slid it open and waited for him to speak.

“Hi,” He gave his most charming smile at her, to which she just raised an eyebrow.

“And what can I do for you, boy?” She said brusquely, and Dean was taken aback by her bluntness.

“Uh,” He dropped the amiable act, the smile sliding off his face. “I’m new. Dean Winchester?” He shuffled his feet, hitching his backpack higher onto his shoulder. Now she smiled at him, and he felt a little relieved.

“Well hello Dean, I’m Missouri,” She tapped the name-badge pinned neatly on her pinstriped office shirt. “I spoke to your daddy on Friday,” She spun her chair and began rooting around in a filing cabinet.

“Oh, what about?” Dean tapped the plexiglass window with his fingernail.

“Just about you moving into the school, and if everything would be okay since it was your senior year and it’s already October,” She said from the depths of the cabinet.

“And, uh, is everything okay?” Dean tried to see what she was looking at but could only see an endless amount of manila folders.

“Most definitely.” Missouri surfaced, now holding a few sheaves of paper and came up to the window, giving him the papers. She handed him a pen as well and told him to fill some things out while she got him his timetable.

Dean was just signing the last line, glasses seated crookedly in his face where he had hastily stuffed them on, bottom lip pinched between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, when he heard the door to the office opened again, and a voice said, “Morning Ms Moseley! How’re you today?”

“Mr Fitzgerald, you’re late again.” Missouri’s words were chiding but her voice was warm. Dean frowned at the paper. That was a nicer tone than she had given him.

“I know, ma’am, but when I realised I had slept in I ran all the way here.” He did sound puffed out, and when Dean glanced at the new comer, he saw that he was red in the cheeks, with a sheen of sweat coating his forehead, sticking his brown hair to his forehead.

“Don’t you _drive_ to school, Mr Fitzgerald?” Ms Moseley said dryly and the boy grinned.

“I ran all the way from the carpark,” He amended his statement, making Missouri laugh.

“Well, you know you don’t have to say hi to me every morning, Garth,” Missouri smiled. “You can just go straight to class when you’re late.”

“Well you seem awful lonely here by yourself, Ms Moseley,” The new guy answered. “I’m just being friendly.”

“Well that’s very kind of you,” Missouri sounded on the verge of laughing. Dean finished the papers and slid them back over to her, and she gave him his timetable in exchange. “But since you’re here, you can escort Mr Winchester- that’s this boy here- to his first class.”

Dean turned red. “Oh no- I don’t need an escort-” He started but he was cut off.

“I’d be mighty pleased to!” Dean narrowed his eyes at Missouri, who raised her eyebrows haughtily in return, though there was amusement underlying the disdain in her eyes. “I’m Garth Fitzgerald the fourth, but you can call me G-Dawg,” The new guy held out his hand for Dean to shake. Dean took it and shook it once, smiling at the name.

“I think Garth will do,” He said. Garth shrugged and beamed at him.

“What’s your first subject?” He tried to see Dean’s timetable that he was holding but Dean took a step back, stopping him from invading his space.

“English,” Dean said, after squinting at the paper.

“Sounds good!” Garth chirped, turning to face the door. “That’s in the opposite direction to my biology class but, hey, I’m already late, aren’t I?”

“Well, I’m sure I can find it if-” Dean started, feeling overwhelmed by Garth’s enthusiasm. Missouri Moseley was watching their exchange and wasn’t bothering to hide her amusement at Dean’s discomfort anymore.

“No, no!” Garth opened the door for him, and Dean felt he had no choice but to walk through. “It’ll be- after you, Deano- It’ll be my pleasure!” Garth followed him out, practically skipping, his beige messenger bag draped over one shoulder.

“Please don’t call me Deano,” Dean surrendered to defeat and matched his pace to Garth’s as they began strolling through the school, stuffing his glasses back in his bag as he did so.

“Alrighty,” His companion didn’t seem fazed and Dean wondered if that smile was permanently etched onto Garth’s face.

Garth didn’t seem to be able to walk in silence, and by the time they reached Dean’s classroom, he had wrangled details of Dean’s life story he’d never even given his friends back in Indiana. There was just something about talking to Garth that had Dean spouting inane facts about himself to the other boy, and he didn’t feel embarrassed by saying them. By the time Garth had waved a cheery goodbye and a “See you at lunch!”, Dean already felt less like an outsider.

Dean didn’t knock when he opened the door, so when he walked in he interrupted the teacher mid-speech. She was standing at the front of the classroom, a copy of Shakespeare’s _Antony and Cleopatra_ open in one hand.

“Oh,” Dean stopped midway through the door as the teacher fell silent and the class’s eyes turned on him. “Sorry,”

“You must be Mr Winchester?” The teacher said, sounding amused. She put a fist on her hip and looked at him with narrowed eyes, a smile twitching on her lips. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?”

Dean, far from being ashamed, just grinned. “Someone did, ma’am, but I’m pretty forgetful,” He shrugged and a few people in the class laughed. The teacher huffed and her smile grew wider.

“Well, I’m pretty forgetful too. Why don’t you come up here and introduce yourself to me and the class, as a refresher to remind me of some of your details.” She smirked as his smile faded, and he had to hand it to her, she knew how to handle being cheeked by a student.

“Well,” Dean made it all the way into the classroom and up the front, where he only coloured slightly under the gaze of the students. “I’m Dean Winchester. I just moved here from Indiana, I have a little brother named Sam…” He looked at the teacher to see if it was enough but she nodded for him to continue. Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m seventeen, my family travels a lot and... my favourite food is pie.”

“Alright, guy, that’s enough,” The teacher stepped beside Dean as the class laughed. Dean grinned at her and she rolled her eyes. “Take a seat there at the front and we’ll get back to _Antony and Cleopatra_. I’m Mrs Milton and welcome to you senior english class.”

Dean dropped his bag by the desk in the front row and collapsed into the seat, taking a moment to grab his things out. He listened in silence to Mrs Milton as she explained about Roman politics, and about the triumvirate of Rome. She then set the class to answer three questions about why they think Antony would marry Octavia if he was in love with Cleopatra that she wrote on the board.

Mrs Milton walked over to Dean, who had opened his notebook and put on his glasses, and crouched by his desk. Her long red hair was pulled up in a ponytail and her brown eyes were kind as she appraised him.

“Have you read the play, Dean?” She asked. Dean fidgeted.

“I read the plot on SparkNotes,” He admitted. She laughed.

“Benny,” She turned to the guy sitting next to Dean, who looked up from his notebook. “Do you mind just working through these questions with Dean here today? He hasn’t read the book.”

The guy nodded. “Sure thing, Mrs Milton,” He said, his words coated in a thick southern accent. Mrs Milton stood and left, walking around to help the other students.

“Hey,” The boy- Benny- said. He was wearing a grey and blue letterman jacket over a black shirt, with dark jeans on. His hair was brown, and he had bright blue eyes. _Not as bright as Castiel’s eyes, though,_ Dean found himself noting. He blinked, startled at his thought train, and realised he should probably answer.

“Hi,” Dean nodded in return.

“I’m Benny Lafitte,”

“Dean Winchester,”

“I was actually gonna talk to you once she’d gone.” He nodded his head in Mrs Milton’s direction. “I left my Tony and Cleo at home. Mind if I look on with you?” Benny didn’t even look like he’d asked a question, and he certainly wasn’t considering what he’d do if Dean said no. But Dean wasn’t going to refuse, and Benny seemed pretty cool.

“Sure,” He spun his book around so Benny could see it and Benny began giving him the rundown of the play.

“Short and simple, _Antony and Cleopatra_ is basically the grown up version of _Romeo and Juliet_.” He explained. “But instead of one week, it goes on for ten years, which is a much better love story, in my opinion.” Dean raised his eyebrows but remained silent. “Okay, so you got your Romans and your Egyptians…”

They finished their questions and were talking about their mutual love of a videogame called _Purgatory_ when the bell rang, signalling the end of class. Benny said he’d show Dean where his physics class was, and they walked together, still discussing the attention to detail in the game.

“I mean, even the colour is muted and it just looks… pure.” Benny was saying, tugging on his jacket. “And the monsters-”

“The Vampirates!” Dean broke in. Benny raised an eyebrow at him.

“The what?”

“Vampirates! You know…” Dean realised that Benny was looking at him weirdly. “They’re vampires… and pirates… Vampire pirates…” Benny still looked confused. “Come on man, it’s like the first thing you say!”

“No it isn’t,” Benny struggled to keep his grin in check as he watched Dean squirm.

“It so is!” Dean glared at Benny, who tried, and failed, to cover his laugh with a cough.

“This is you,” Benny chortled, pointing to a door they were approaching.

“Thanks,” Dean said. Benny waved and left as Dean entered the class.

The teacher wasn’t in yet but there were a few students milling about so he slipped into a desk in the third row. He set up his things and waited, fiddling with the temple of his glasses, pulling them open and shut, each time trying to minimise the squeaking noise they made with every movement.

“Oh my god, that noise is literally the worst,”

Dean flinched, looking up at the girl who’d snuck up on him, which was, in itself, a commendable feat. She had a British accent, long wavy dark blonde hair and green eyes that were narrowed at his glasses on the desk.

Dean raised his eyebrows at her. “Sorry,” He offered, though his voice was flat, not a hint of contrition in his tone.

“Just- stop, would you? It’s pretty annoying,” She flounced off to her seat at the back of the class, leaving Dean frowning after her.

“That was Bela Talbot,” Another blonde stole into the seat next to Dean and lent over to whisper. Dean was nonplussed. He presumed people would be gossips in his english class, not physics. “She’s been at this school for as long as I have,” The girl continued, her lips painted with an alarming shade of pink lipstick, sticking slightly together whenever she closed her mouth. “Which is, to say, since sophomore year. But she moved here from England in fifth grade, so I’ve heard.”

Dean tried to lean away from the girl, but she followed him, moving uncomfortably closer, until she was almost sharing his seat. He didn’t know what to do. “I’m Becky.” She said, and she was so close Dean could see the brown roots growing in her apparently fake blonde hair. “Becky Rosen.”

“Hi,” Dean said it in a warning tone, hoping she would back off, and she did, leaning away a little but still too close for Dean’s comfort.

“So you’re Dean,” Becky looked him up and down. “I like your jacket. Leather is so _hot_.”

Dean swallowed. “Okay.” He was seriously considering getting up and moving seats. Even being closer to Bela the noise Nazi would be better than Becky Rosen.

He was just about to politely tell Becky to stop describing the colour of his own eyes to him when a voice said “Dean!”

He spun in his chair to see Garth walk into the room, and though he only knew the guy for ten minutes he felt a rush of relief. He waved him over.

“Mind if you sit with me?” Dean was almost begging. Garth blinked and then the widest, most genuine smile Dean had ever seen appeared on his face.

“Of course, Dean,” Garth said. He turned to Becky, still smiling. “And how’re you, Becky?” He asked her.

“Fine thanks,” Dean noticed that Becky’s demeanour had gone from desperate to stiff, her nose wrinkling slightly in distaste.

“I like your lipstick today.” Garth sounded totally sincere. Becky made a face.

“Stop,” She said, and picked up her things, moving away. Dean raised his eyebrows, looking at Garth with a new sense of respect.

“How’d you know that would work?” He asked.

“What would work?” Garth met his gaze with complete sincerity, confused by Dean’s question.

“Never mind,” Dean shook his head as their teacher walked through the door. Garth set up his table and Dean tried to listen to the instructions for today’s lesson. Their teacher was a mousy man with a high forehead and tufts of blond hair. He had ruddy cheeks and small watery blue eyes in comparison to his rather square face.

“That’s Mr Miller,” Garth whispered to Dean. “He’s a bit anxious when he teaches so it’s best to just do the work or he gets pretty depressed and, y’know, crazy,”

“Right,” Dean made a mental note and also wrote down the words from the board. They penned their work in silence but Mr Miller let them go ten minutes early in reward for their silent learning.

“Sorry for making you sit with me,” Dean said as they exited the classroom.

“Oh that’s okay,” Garth beamed at him again. “I’d’ve just sat by myself anyway, so it was nice to have some company as I worked,”

Dean blinked. “Garth-”

“Now, now, Deano,” Garth was still smiling. Clearly he didn’t think anything was wrong. “You have to sit in silence in Mr Miller’s class anyway, so it’s no big. Make any friends besides me?” He had dropped the subject and Dean let it slide.

“Uh, I sat next to Benny Lafitte in my english class. He was nice,” Dean shrugged. He was pretty sure he’d have this exact same conversation with Sam later that day.

“Yeah, Benny’s a good guy.” Garth nodded. There was a lapse in conversation as they walked into the cafeteria. Dean shifted his feet and looked around, wondering if Garth would offer for Dean to come sit with him, though he decided he was being a baby and was probably bothering Garth, even though the dude was _still smiling_. It was hurting Dean’s cheeks, let alone the other guy’s.

Dean followed Garth to a table, not sitting but waiting awkwardly as Garth sat on one of the benches. If more than a few seconds passed and Garth didn’t invite him to sit too, then Dean was going to retreat with as much dignity as he could muster.

He needn’t have worried though, because as soon as Garth planted his butt he looked up at Dean and said, “Grab your lunch, Deano, and then come sit, if you’d like,”

Dean’s eye twitched at the nickname but he didn’t correct Garth again. “Well,” Dean sat opposite the other boy and grabbed the paper bag with his lunch in it out of his bag. He’d given Sammy money to buy his lunch but figured he’d make his own food for a while and save some spare cash. “I brought my own,”

Garth giggled, and Dean cocked his head but didn’t say anything about a reduction of masculinity points, seeing as Garth didn’t really have any to begin with. “I knew we we’re kindred spirits, Dean my man,”

“Huh,” Dean frowned.

“I brought my own lunch too!” Garth showed his own cling-wrapped lunch. “Well, my ma made it, but,” He shrugged. “Same same.”

There was silence as they unpacked their lunches and ate a few bites, Dean sneaking glances at the people around the room while Garth hummed happily to his corned beef sandwich.

Over to one side was Bela Talbot, hair tied away from her face as she poked at a salad. At her table was another girl with long red hair, chatting animatedly to Bela while eating a cheeseburger, as well as a girl with dark hair who was drinking something red.

At another table was Benny, sitting with an olive-skinned girl and two blond guys. Benny caught his eye and nodded, and Dean half-raised a hand in return. Benny returned to his conversation and Dean dropped his eyes to his sandwich.

“So you do two sciences?” Dean asked Garth as he took another bite. Garth nodded.

“I’m not very good at them, but I try my best.” He shrugged. He then spotted someone over Dean’s shoulder and waved, a loving grin on his face.

Dean turned and watched a girl with short wavy blonde hair walk to the table, sliding in beside Garth and pecking him on the cheek. Dean was a little surprised, but masked his bewilderment. He smiled at the girl as Garth introduced her.

“Dean, this is my Bess. Bess, this is Dean Winchester. He’s new, but we’re already friends,” He beamed, looking between the girl and Dean.

“Hi,” Bess smiled politely at Dean. She was wearing a patterned sweater and jeans, a silver necklace disappearing under the collar of the knitwear. She had kind eyes and seemed almost as friendly as Garth.

“Hey,” Dean greeted in return. Bess brought out a homemade lunch too, which turned out to be a steak sandwich. Dean decided he liked this girl.

* * *

Dean’s last class for the day was auto shop, which he shared with Benny Lafitte who he sat next to. Dean figured Benny had sat with him out of pity, and tried to dissuade him by saying he was fine, but Benny, with an easy laugh and a whistle of contentment, said he was also fine in the seat next to Dean.

When the bell rang signalling the end of the lesson, Dean was told to stay behind by the teacher. Dean was surprised. He was good with cars and he had felt he had an understanding of what they were learning even though he was a month late.

“Dean Winchester,” The teacher looked grumpy, his trucker cap pulled low on his brow, beard a healthy mix of brown and grey.

“Mr Singer doesn’t take any shit,” Benny had whispered to him when the teacher had taken a seat at the beginning of the class. “So if you had any cheek left after Mrs Milton’s class, brother, better hope you had left it outside the room.”

Dean swallowed as Mr Singer eyed him before adjusting his cap and telling the day’s lesson plan to the class. He was infamous for insulting his class often, and apparently had sent Becky Rosen out for giggling when he was talking. She had changed classes afterwards, though she tells everyone that wasn’t why.

Mr Singer hadn’t paid Dean the time of day, effectively ignoring him for the entire class. Dean didn’t mind. He felt he would only get on Mr Singer’s bad side if they spoke.

And now Mr Singer wanted to talk to him one-on-one. He was so screwed.

“Sir,” Dean responded, nodding politely. Mr Singer gazed at him from under his cap, and Dean waited, the silence stretching out until he could feel it prickling along his skin.

“How’re you finding school, son?” Mr Singer asked abruptly, sitting down in the chair behind the teacher’s desk. Dean was surprised, and was sure some degree of the emotion had flitted across his face before he reeled it in.

“Uh, it’s good,” Dean swallowed, gazing at the clock. Sam would be leaving school about now. “I think I’m settling in.”

“That’s good.” Mr Singer nodded. “John leave in the ungodly hours of this mornin’, did he?”

Dean tore his eyes from the clock to stare at the teacher. “You know my dad?” He asked incredulously.

“‘Course,” Mr Singer huffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Me an’ John go way back.” He narrowed his eyes at Dean. “He didn’t tell you ‘bout Ellen and me?”

“Oh.” Dean let out a breath. “Yes, yes, sorry.” He squirmed under the teacher’s gaze. “Ellen runs The Roadhouse,” He blurted out in a rush, feeling like he needed to convince Mr Singer he wasn’t lying.

“Right,” Mr Singer leant back in his chair and chuckled. Dean relaxed his shoulders a little at the laugh.

“Dad did leave early this morning,” Dean answered Mr Singers question from before, and the teacher nodded. “But last night he also told Sam to find Jo, apparently they’re in the same year.” Dean ended the sentence in a lilt, feeling like he had asked a question.

Mr Singer nodded again. “That’s right,” He agreed, glancing at the clock as he did so. “So if you boys need anythin’, just give us a call or head on over. I don’t agree with John leavin’ you boys alone for a week, so if you need an adult…” He penned a number onto a small card and handed it to Dean. It was a home number. “Anytime, okay?” Bobby looked up at Dean from under his cap.

Dean swallowed. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” He knew they wouldn’t call, but he was thankful for the gesture. A little knot in his chest he didn’t know he had released a little. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Mr Singer repeated, spinning his chair so he was facing the desk. “Now get, I’ve got stuff to do,” He waved vaguely at the door and Dean happily obliged, trotting out with a hasty ‘See you tomorrow!’

Dean may have jogged most of the way to the intersection, but when he rounded the corner onto the main road he saw Sam just a little ways ahead of him he slowed to a walk, relieved he had caught up to his brother even with the delay.

“Sam!” He called. He saw his brother turn, and he raised an arm. Sam waved back and stopped walking so Dean could catch up.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam smiled when Dean came close enough to hear him.

“Hi,” Dean grinned, reaching out to ruffle Sam’s hair, but his brother leant out of the way with a scowl before Dean could fluff it up. Dean laughed and started walking again, Sam falling into step beside him. “How was your day?”

“It was pretty good!” Sam sounded happy. “I met a few people, and the classes were interesting. I’m up to date, so it’s all good.” He hummed and turned to Dean. “How about you? Make any friends?”

Dean shrugged. “I guess. I sat with some people at lunch. They’re pretty cool, if a little lame.” Sam scoffed and shoved him, and Dean went with it, laughing as he stumbled off the footpath onto someone’s lawn. “I was kidding,” He amended, elbowing Sam when he came beside him again.

“I know,” Sam smiled, turning off the cement nature strip to walk up the gravel footpath that lead to their front door. “I just wanted to push you.”

“Bitch,” Dean said as he dug round in his bag for his keys.

“Jerk,” Sam replied, waiting patiently for Dean to unlock the door.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean held the door open for his brother, who nimbly side-stepped Dean when he stuck a foot out to try and trip him.

“So what’s for dinner?” Sam asked as he shucked his shoes off in the hallway.

“I’m guessing you don’t want leftover spaghetti?” Dean winced as Sam made a disgusted sound. “Fine, I’ll make something else. How about I cook up some steak?”

“What vegetables?” Sam asked, and it was Dean’s turn to sound disgusted. “Come on, Dean, vegetables! They’re important!”

Dean turned to him in the middle of sliding his boots off and shook his head at his brother. “Sometimes it’s like we’re not even related.”

* * *

 After the realisation that they had been only left with red meat and carbs, Dean (begrudgingly) made a trip to the store and returned with enough greens to bring a smile to Sam’s face. Sam pretended to help him cook, and after a dinner of steak, broccoli, beans and mashed potato, they each went to their rooms so Sam could do homework and Dean didn’t have to pretend he was doing any, but as the night wore on he got so bored he started leafing through _Antony and Cleopatra_ and was actually halfway through Act I when he realised it was after 10 o’clock.

“Time for bed, Squirt,” Dean leant against the doorjamb of Sam’s room, where Sam was laying across the bed, books scattered around him.

“Technically, I’m already in bed,” Was Sam’s response.

“Nice try,” Dean pushed some books off the bed and sat down, looking Sam in the eyes. “Dude your eyes are red. If you don’t look out, it’ll be you wearing glasses next.”

“Will not,” He mumbled, but his eyes flickered down before he shut the book in front of him. “I am kinda tired though,”

“Teeth, then bed, okay?” Dean rumbled, getting off the bed and stretching before going to the bathroom himself and brushing his own teeth. Sam came in when he was spitting, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, looking like he’d just woken up rather than about to go to bed. Dean grinned at him with a foamy mouth and ruffled his brother’s hair, and as a testament to how tired Sam was, all he did was paw at Dean’s wrist and give a “mergh” to get him to stop.

“You work too hard,” Dean snorted. “It’s only the first day of school and look at you!”

“Don’t wanna fall behind,” Sam mumbled.

“Dude, you’re probably so far ahead of those other guys already,” Dean replied, turning back to the sink to rinse his mouth out with water.

“Mergh,” Sam said again, grabbing his toothbrush, and that was the end of the conversation.

Dean leafed through a few more pages of _Antony and Cleopatra_ until he heard the bathroom light click off and Sam’s door close. He crept into the hallway and checked if there was light coming from under Sam’s door or if he had actually gone to sleep. When he saw no illumination spilling into the hall, Dean checked the locks on the front and back doors and made sure all the windows were shut before drinking a glass of water down with two aspirin. He then ambled back to bed and flopped onto the mattress with a soft _whump_ , waiting for the thumping at his temples to disappear and for sleep to come. He should probably read with his glasses on next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Cas is only spoken about in this chapter but, c'mon, it's chapter 2, I'm still getting through the introductions of the story. And Dean with glasses is a personal favourite of mine and I was like, _hm, I'm writing a story, why not_. So there, a bespectacled Dean for everyone.  
>  Also, I really hope you all are enjoying it!


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean drew out the _a_ in Sam’s name while he knocked on his brother’s bedroom door. “Wakie wakie, Squirt.” He opened the door halfway, peering into the dimness. “You’re gonna be late for school, man.”

The muffled, sleepy reply he got wasn’t satisfactory. Dean retreated from the room only long enough to grab his iPod, and, turning it up to full volume, he placed it near Sam’s head, still buried into the pillow, and pressed play.

Dean pulled open Sam’s thin blue curtains as the guitar riff from Asia’s _Heat of the Moment_ began, and sunlight lit the room well enough for him to watch Sam sit up in bed and glare daggers at Dean, hair looking like a bird’s nest, Dean’s iPod clutched tightly in his fisted hand.

“Please don’t break that,” Was all Dean said as he smiled at his brother. Sam looked back at him unblinkingly, and Dean knew he was trying to melt him with his eyes. He kept on smiling smugly until Sam got out of bed and threw Dean’s iPod forcefully back onto the mattress, _Heat of the Moment_ still playing, and stomped out of the room.

Dean waited next to the front door until Sam was ready, opening the door for him and ushering him out. “You can still be on time if we walk fast,” Dean said over his shoulder to Sam as he locked the door.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam mumbled, digging his hands into his pockets and kicked some loose gravel on the path.

“Sam,” Dean sighed. “Look, I’m sorry for waking you up, but you wouldn’t want to be late for school and-”

“I know, Dean,” Sam made an effort to look his brother in the eyes. “But Asia? _Really_?” Dean’s laughter echoed down the street as they walked to school.

“Hey,” Sam said when they got to the middle school (with plenty of time left). “Thanks for making the toast this morning, by the way,”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “If you hadn’t been in a coma you could’ve made your own breakfast,” He replied. “It was a one-time thing.”

“Okay,” Sam smiled, taking a few steps towards the school, still facing Dean. Dean watched with amusement as Sam turned just in time to bump into a girl and fall, taking the blonde down with him. Dean let out a bark of laughter as he watched Sam untangle himself from the girl, apologising repeatedly, red-faced and panicking. The girl was laughing and smiling, waving off Sam’s apologies and brushing the dirt off her jeans.

Dean left Sam to the girl’s mercy and only arrived at the high school a few minutes late. His first class was physics, and Mr Miller let him in with a quaky “try not to be late again, Mr Winchester.”

Garth had saved him a seat, and Dean slid in gratefully, nodding in thanks and turning his attention to the work. Mr Miller dismissed them early again, and Dean grabbed him timetable out of his bag before walking out the door with Garth.

“So, hey,” Dean started awkwardly, and Garth turned and smiled at him.

“Hi!” He responded, and Dean had to fight a smile that was threatening to spill out over his face.

“Hey,” Dean said in return, and then realised he’d repeated himself, and quickly continued. “Do you think you can help me find my trig class?”

“Of course, Deano!” Garth grabbed his timetable off him and spun on the spot, facing down the corridor. “This way!” He pointed, and they started walking.

“Thanks man,” Dean said, taking longer strides to keep up with Garth’s trotting gait.

“No problemo,” Garth replied. “And you have Ms Barnes too! She’s cool,”

“Oh, good,” Dean nodded. “Chill teachers are awesome.”

Garth dropped him off next to the right room and trotted off to Home Ec, while Dean hesitantly entered the class. Ms Barnes wasn’t there yet, but Dean didn’t recognise any of the other teens at the tables either. He awkwardly made his way towards the back when he heard a voice say “Psst, new guy!”

Dean presumed this was him and turned to the redhead he had seen talking to Bela Talbot at lunch yesterday gesturing to him. He stepped towards her and half raised a hand. “You called?” He said.

“Want a seat?” She chirped, gesturing to the empty seat next to her on the edge of the aisle. “You look a little lost,” She added.

Dean raised an eyebrow at her. “I had it under control,” He grunted, but put his things down. “I’m Dean,” He said once his stuff was on the table.

“Charlie,” She grinned at him, tucking her flaming hair behind her ears and tapping a pencil against the table.

Ms Barnes was fifteen minutes late to class, and by the time she entered the room, coffee in hand, Charlie and Dean were well acquainted. Charlie had Dean’s glasses on and was trying to read her math textbook through the lenses while they discussed their shared mutual love of _Game of Thrones_.

“Hey there kiddies!” Ms Barnes shut the door with her foot before walking to her tables and scattering her things. The only thing she put down gently was her coffee. The class gave a garbled reply of greeting to Ms Barnes, and she grinned, shaking her brown hair out of her face. “You guys ready to learn some trig?”

* * *

“So you’re saying you _don’t like Harry Potter_?” Charlie sounded aghast when she walked with Dean to the cafeteria at the end of class.

“No,” Dean huffed, adjusting the strap of his bag more securely onto his shoulder. “I just… I haven’t seen them all.”

It took him a second to realise Charlie had stopped walking. “Oh come on,” He rolled his eyes. “It’s not so bad.”

“ _It’s not so_ \- Dean Winchester, we are having a movie marathon this weekend.” Charlie grabbed his arm and they resumed walking.

“Uhh…” Dean made a face. “Look, I don’t know you from Jack, so,”

He heard Charlie _tsk_ from his shoulder, and her fingers squeezed where they were clamped around his bicep. “I guess that’s understandable.” She said. “But this means that in a few weeks we’re having a movie marathon. And at least let me lend you the books.”

They elbowed their way into the cafeteria as Dean reluctantly agreed, hoping she’d forget about it. He looked around and saw Garth already at a table with Bess, and wondered if he should go sit with them again and risk bothering the couple. His worry was dashed when Garth saw him and waved him over, and he said goodbye to Charlie as she joined the line for food.

“Hey,” He said, sitting opposite the couple.

“Hi!” They said in unison. Dean made a face at them, and they laughed.

“How was trig?” Garth asked, taking a bite of his homemade sandwich.

“Good,” Dean nodded, reaching into his bag to grab his own lunch. “I sat next to Charlie. She’s cool.”

“Charlie Bradbury?” Bess asked, tugging at the sleeves of her jumper.

Dean paused for a second. “Uh. Red hair.” He shrugged as Bess laughed.

“Yep, that’s Charlie Bradbury,” She said. “She’s cool. Been friends with Bela and Ruby since junior high.”

Dean looked over his shoulder and saw Charlie sit down with a tray at the same table as yesterday, Bela smiling and greeting her along with a dark haired girl mixing up a red powerade. He assumed the brunette was Ruby.

“Damn, I’m dying for a coffee,” Bess remarked, resting her head on Garth’s shoulder.

“They don’t sell coffee here?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know what hyped-up school you’ve come from, Dean, but here they don’t sell anything more caffeinated than apples.” Garth answered. Dean wrinkled his nose.

“They sell apples?” He pulled a face and found himself thinking about coffee, and thus, his new job. He then dug his phone out of his pocket, debating a little on what to do next, and searched for Castiel’s number. He took a breath and held it.

 

**Are you working today?**

 

He typed a text and sent it, letting go of the breath while nodding along as Bess and Garth talked about their mutual need for caffeine.

 

**Who is this?**

 

Was the reply Dean got back, and he snorted a laugh. He had assumed Gabriel had given Castiel his number like Gabriel had handed his out, but obviously not.

 

**Dean Winchester. Your new coworker, remember?**

 

He hit send and sniggered. He could’ve messed with Castiel since the other man clearly didn’t know who he was, but he figured that Castiel didn’t like him much already, so he shouldn’t push his buttons. Yet.

His phone vibrated, a new message from _Castiel Novak_ appearing on his screen.

 

**Yes, I remember you Dean. I’m assuming Gabriel gave you my number. And as an answer to your previous question, yes, I am working today. Why do you ask?**

 

Dean hummed, taking the last bite of his sandwich as he appraised Castiel’s text. The guy was really proper in his texting attitude, and it amused Dean all to Hell.

“Who’re you texting?” Bess asked in a sing-song tone. Dean raised an eyebrow at her. “Is it your _girlfriend_?” She laughed and Dean snorted.

“Nah,” Dean shrugged. “Just a guy from work,”

“Oh,” Bess frowned at him in confusion. “I don’t smile that much when I talk to people from work.”

“I wasn’t smiling,” Dean spoke quickly, and grimaced slightly when Bess tried to hide her giggle. Dean narrowed his eyes playfully at her and then turned back to his reply.

 

**Just thinking of bringing some friends in after school, and wanted to know if it was you or Gabriel on. Sorry for bothering you, thanks for the replies.**

 

Dean was never usually so polite, but he figured he should be respectful to Castiel, since the guy pretty much hated his guts.

“Wait, you have a job?” Garth nodded in approval. “I thought you just moved here.”

“I did,” Dean shrugged. “I looked for a job straight away.” He tapped a rhythm onto his phone while he waited for it to vibrate with a reply from Castiel. If he replied.

“Where do you work?” Bess asked, brushing the crumbs from her hands.

“Uh, a café. _Slice of Heaven_ ,” Dean watched for any signs of familiarity, but got none. “You guys wanna go after school today? It’s good coffee, and the owner makes killer cakes,” He realised he may have sounded kind of desperate. He had forgotten he’d only known Garth for about a day and a half.

He winced as he watched the couple exchange a glance. “I want to,” Bess shrugged, and Dean exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I’ve got no reason to go home early.”

Garth nodded enthusiastically. “I’m game,” he said. Dean’s phone vibrated under his fingers but he waited for Garth to finish speaking before reading the text. “I’ve got money to spare,”

Dean opened the text next, warmth spreading through him even as he snorted at the words.

 

**Gabriel assured me he would be back tomorrow to bake fresh products, but he would like it if you would bring some business in. And it is no bother replying to you, Dean. I shall see you after you finish school. Have a pleasant day.**

 

“So wanna go after school? The coffee’s pretty good,” Dean confirmed with Garth and Bess, and they both agreed.

“I don’t know how long I can stay though,” Bess chewed her lip. “Joy might want me home early,”

“Joy?” Dean asked, placing his phone back on the table.

“My stepmother,” Bess answered. “Ooh,” An idea apparently struck her. “What’s your family like, Dean?”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “I live with my dad and my brother. Sam goes to the middle school down the way,” Dean gestured absently in the direction he thought the middle school was in. “Helluva brainiac, that kid is,”

“You sound proud of him,” Garth said. Dean looked surprised.

“Well,” He shrugged. “He ain’t amounted to anything yet, but we’ll see,” He chuckled.

“What about your mamma?” Bess looked half-inquisitive, half-apprehensive. When she saw Dean’s shoulders tense, she backtracked. “You don’t have to tell, if you don’t want to,”

“Naw,” Dean forcefully relaxed his shoulders. “It’s cool. She died when I was four. House fire,” He rolled his lips and wished he had some more food so he could do something with his hands. He took to tapping the rhythm of Black Sabbath’s _Paranoid_ into his thigh.

“Oh,” Bess grimaced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” Garth patted her hand and Dean shook his head.

“No, really, s’okay,” Dean reassured her.

“Where’s your next class?” Garth scratched the back of his head and changed the subject, and Dean was grateful for the distraction.

* * *

Dean found his own way to his world history class, and sat down with a sense of accomplishment. He was reasonably early, and so students were still filing in as he set up his things. There was a general buzz of chatter while they waited for the teacher, and Dean began fiddling with his glasses again, seeing as he had no one to talk to. He was sitting on the aisle seat, so it was no surprise that people sat next to him. What surprised him was the conversation the two boys were having.

“No, if we go find the ghost and _film_ the ghost, we’d get killed. They’re called malevolent spirits for a _reason_ , Ed.” The scruffy guy with the glasses said. His voice was kind of whiny and Dean already felt so invested in this conversation. He frowned at his glasses case and pretended he wasn’t listening.

“But Harry,” The second guy said. His dark hair was slicked up, sort of aligned in a point in the middle of his head, and Dean was trying not to laugh. “Think of the money we’d make! The girls we’d woo.” He sighed. Dean had set his glasses down and was biting his knuckle now, trying to hold his laughter in, although his shoulders were shaking. “Think of the sex-” The guy continued, and right then, the teacher walking in.

She was dressed in a neat grey pencil skirt and a matching blazer, and the whole class fell silent as her black heels clacked across the floor. Dean took a moment to recover from his silent laughter, and when the shakes subsided and he took his fist out of his mouth (crescent tooth marks indenting his knuckles), he found the that the teacher was smiling directly at him, a simpering look on her face, though her pale blue eyes were cold.

He swallowed and sank in his seat, grateful for when she finally looked away. The class greeted her as Mrs Thompson, and they worked in silence for the whole lesson, listening to her talk about the Russian Revolution and penning down notes. Dean was already regretting taking this class.

When the bell finally rang, Dean was out of there like a cork from a bottle. Garth and Bess were already waiting for him in the car park by a slightly rusty, brown 1977 Ford Ranchero Squire as he jogged up. “Is Mrs Thompson’s classes always dead silent?” He asked in way of greeting.

“Oh, you have her?” Bess winced in sympathy. “Yeah, they’re always dead silent. It sucks for you, she’s a total noise freak.” Bess tugged on her sweater, looking nervous, like Mrs Thompson was going to pop out and tell her off for insulting her. “Is your café far?” She looked around, like there would be a sign that would tell her where _Slice of Heaven_ was.

“Nah,” Dean said to the couple. “Just down the way a little. We can walk or you guys can drive, if you like. ‘S’not far,”

“We’ll drive,” Garth said. “Be easier to drop Bess home if we drive straight from the café anyway,”

“Sounds reasonable,” Dean shuffled his feet as the couple got into the car. His doubts about being invited to grab a lift disappeared when Bess scooted close to Garth on the single bench of the Ranchero and gestured for Dean to get in too.

The very short ride was filled with small talk, and when Garth parked outside the café, Dean was first out of the car, making sure the couple knew which store was the right one before pushing the door open.

The stupid bell jingle made Dean scrunch up his nose as he walked through the door. There were a few customers, but the café wasn’t overly busy. Castiel was wiping down a stainless steel milk jug with a yellow striped cloth behind the counter, though he looked up when the bell above the door rang.

Dean grinned as he sauntered up to the counter. Castiel was in his uniform, the polo shirt hugging his sides just a little too snugly, his black apron (with the words _Slice of Heaven_ stitched onto the chest with sky blue cursive) looped around his neck and tied at the waist, and he was wearing what Dean was willing to bet were the same dark jeans from yesterday. There was cocoa dusting parts of Castiel’s apron, and Dean tore his eyes from the material to see that Castiel was watching him with a slightly tilted head. Dean noted the hair near his temples was slightly curled, waves falling snugly beside his ears.

“I’d like some beef jerky and a pack of menthols,” Dean smirked as he put his hands on the counter, leaning forwards slightly. Castiel frowned at him, half-turning so he could set the jug down beside the coffee machine behind him.

“We do not sell beef jerky _or_ menthols here, Dean,” He said once he turned back to the front, and Dean hummed, eyes glimmering with amusement.

“It was a joke, Cas,” He said.

“Oh,” Castiel answered, adjusting the collar of his shirt so the straps of his apron ran underneath it. The bell on the door rung again, and Dean looked over his shoulder to see Garth and Bess walk in, holding hands and looking around.

Garth caught Dean’s eye and called, “This place is great Deano!” across the store, shooting him a thumbs up with the hand that wasn’t occupied.

“Deano?” Castiel rumbled, and Dean turned back to look at him.

“Don’t you start,” Dean grumbled, pegging Castiel with a glare, though it fell away soon enough as he swore he saw a smile dancing on the corners of the other guy’s mouth. Dean's heart thudded, and he ended up smiling himself, just as Bess and Garth made there way to the counter.

Dean introduced them awkwardly to Castiel, who smiled and nodded. Dean frowned at him. He never got a smile and a nod. But when Bess and Garth moved to the left to examine the cakes below them and then read the menu on the wall behind the counter, the smile slipped and Castiel’s face returned to neutral.

It clicked. “Customer service?” Dean asked, low enough that Garth and Bess couldn’t hear his words, but he made sure Castiel could hear amusement caking his voice at the fact that he realised that Castiel had just put on a really convincing show that he was a people-person. He raised his eyebrows in return to Castiel’s frown.

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Garth bounced between him and Dean. “We’ve decided what we want!” He said, and turned to look at Dean over his shoulder. “You know what you want yet, Dean?”

“Uh,” Dean blinked. “Yeah, just a coffee, and did Gabe start selling that jaffa cake? Because, if so, I’ll have some of that,” He grinned at Castiel, who rolled his ridiculously blue eyes.

“You know that’s not even his best cake, right?” Castiel rumbled, tapping the register. “He makes really good blueberry muffins. And that was a long black with… two and a half sugars, right?”

“As if you remember that, Cas.” Dean snorted. “Are the muffins your favourite?”

Castiel stopped poking at the register for a second and thought. Then he shrugged. “The pumpkin loaf is my favourite, I think.” His blue eyes flitted to the shelves and back, and Dean grinned.

“Shoulda pegged you for liking the weird stuff,” He said, a smile pushing at his cheeks. Castiel blinked at him for a moment, before his face fell into a familiar frown.

“It’s not weird.” He wrinkled his nose the tiniest bit and Dean did _not_ find that cute. Bess was looking at them with a smile curving the corners of her lips, which made Dean cough.

“You guys can order now,” Dean paid Cas hurriedly and moved to the side, taking his phone out of his pocket. He had no messages, so he punched in a text of his own.

 

**Hey Sammy, I’m with friends at the café, did you make it home okay?**

 

He knew Sam would roll his eyes when he got the text but he just wanted to double-check that he got home, so sue him for being a good older brother. He shifted his feet and watched as Castiel smiled at Garth and Bess before taking their money and delivering their change.

“You guys eating here or taking away?” Castiel asked, handing Bess her change and patting the front of his apron absently. Garth raised his eyebrows at Dean, who shrugged.

“Guess we can eat here,” Garth said, and beamed at Castiel, who gave the same fake smile in return and said,

“Great. Then if you guys just hold on a tick and I’ll make your order.”

Castiel then spun to face the coffee machine and began working, and Dean leaned further over the counter to see how he did it. Garth and Bess were talking quietly behind him but he almost forgot they were there.

When Castiel turned back to the counter to get their food, he noticed Dean watching him. “Dean,” He started, and Dean felt his face heat up.

“I was just watching you make the stuff!” Dean said, shoving his phone in the pocket of his jeans.

“Yes,” Castiel frowned. Again. “What else would you have been doing?” Dean knew he was blushing then, and he hated himself for it. He heard Garth chuckle from behind him and he hunched his shoulders defensively. “I was going to ask,” Castiel continued, ignoring Dean’s defensive posture. “If you’d like to come round the counter and help,”

“Oh,” Dean’s shoulders lowered and his eyes went wide. “Can I?” He was eager now, taking two steps towards the end of the counter before stopping. “You know I won’t be much help, right?”

Castiel smiled wryly at him, but it was a real smile, none of that customer bullcrap, and Dean drank it in. “Yes, I know,” He said. “I was being nice. You should probably just observe. Don’t touch anything.”

So Dean went around the counter and watched as Castiel poured milk into Bess and Garth’s coffees and plated up their food, moving between the coffee grinder, the machine and the display cabinet with ease. Dean got out plates from under the counter and handed them to Castiel before looking for cutlery, one hand running under the shelves that were beneath the coffee machine, only to have Castiel grab his arm and direct it to the jar of forks beside the coffee grinder. He heard the sharp sound of whipped cream being sprayed onto the plate, and turned to look under his arm as Castiel put little dollops of cream on the plate before putting the can back in the fridge, along with the milk.

“There you are,” Castiel’s voice was warm as he handed Garth and Bess their coffee and the chocolate croissant they were sharing.

“Thanks!” Garth said, and then looked at Dean. “We’ll be in that booth,” He added, and then they walked over, Garth holding the plate and his mug while Bess grabbed two forks and her own drink.

“Yours should be done in a moment,” Castiel said, pouring sugar into a mug that had Dean’s coffee base in it, stirring the two-and-a-half spoonfuls before adding the water. Dean watched his hand around the spoon, swirling the liquid even as he added the water to the green mug.

“Dean?” Dean tore his eyes from Castiel’s hand to his eyes, which weren’t any less of a distraction.

“What?” Dean asked.

“I asked you- Nevermind.” Another smile was playing around the corners of Castiel’s mouth, and Dean wished Castiel would smile more. “Can you grab your cake out of the cabinet?”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean swiped another plate and then paused. “But I thought I wasn’t meant to touch any of the products.”

“Oh, I don’t mind if you ruin your _own_ food.” Castiel turned his back on Dean but he figured the dark-haired guy was laughing at him. “Plus, how much damage can you do while getting a cake out of the cabinet?”

“Is that a challenge?” Dean chuckled, reaching for a pair of tongs beside the cabinet.

“Definitely not,” Castiel’s voice had dropped an octave and he sounded pretty serious, which just made Dean laugh even more.

“Lighten up, Cas, I was just teasing,” To prove his point, Dean carefully lifted a slice of the cake out of the cabinet, setting the plate down on the counter before turning to meet look at Castiel, who had been watching him. “See?” He waved his arms in an extravagant gesture at the plate in front of him.

Castiel just rolled his eyes, shaking his head at Dean. “Your coffee’s ready,” He waved a hand at the green mug on the bench. “You can go sit with your friends now,”

Dean walked out from behind the counter and thanked Castiel before meeting Garth and Bess at the table, sliding into the empty booth across from the one the couple were sharing.

“You looked like you were having fun,” Bess beamed at him, and Dean wrinkled his nose, embarrassment clouding his lingering feeling of happiness.

“Just learning,” He shrugged, and slid his fork into his cake. It was as delicious as it had been on Sunday, but this time Dean controlled himself enough not to let out a moan.

“Croissant good?” He asked the couple across the table with a full mouth. They nodded, forks in their mouths, scooping up cream and strawberries and chocolate and pastry with their forks. Dean though it must be _very_ good, if it silenced Garth.

His phone buzzed, and he grabbed it out of his pocket. The screen told him he had an unopened message from _Samsquatch_.

 

**All good at the home base, D. Take your time, and say hi to Casper and Gabriel or whatever their names are for me.**

 

Dean snorted, putting his phone back in his pocket and scooped up another portion of cake, chewing pensively.

There was little conversation, the trio more focused on their food and drink than conversation. Bess had to leave pretty soon after they had finished, and Garth offered to drive Dean home as well, since he was dropping Bess off, and _it was only fair, Deano_. Dean politely refused, saying it wasn’t far to walk (which is true), and, secretly, he wanted to talk to Castiel again before going home.

Dean had realised, with some trepidation, that he was nursing a small crush on his coworker. He had seen Castiel _once_ before today, and now- well, he was on the edge of his thoughts almost constantly. He had even texted Castiel today instead of Gabriel, for God’s sake. The guy was grumpy, moody, and sullen, but Dean was falling slowly into the abyss of those bright blue eyes and genuine half-smiles and didn’t want to stop.

But he had to. It wasn’t because the guy was a dude- Dean had already come to terms with his flexible sexuality- it was just that he had no time to be macking on some guy at the coffee shop. He had to take care of Sam on the weekdays and work on the weekends to get enough money to go through the cycle again. Take care of Sam, take care of Sam, take care of Sam. It was burnt into his brain, and was, really, his only priority. The only reason he was finishing school and not starting full time work was because it would make Sam happy if he graduated. Dean had no time for acting on his little crush, as he was kind of realising he wasn’t just invested in Castiel’s pretty looks.

Dean made a deal with himself. He would indulge himself today, and that would be the end of it. No staying back late to chat after work if Castiel was there, no more coming out for coffees after school, no more texting. No more crushing on Castiel.

Starting after today.

Dean stacked the plates and saucers and grabbed the mugs with the other hand, bringing them to the counter so Castiel didn’t have to go collect them. He put them down gently, and Castiel turned from wiping down the coffee machine when he heard the quiet clatter of ceramic onto marble.

“Oh,” He rumbled. “You didn’t have to do that, Dean.”

Dean tried not to watch the way Castiel was pulling on the steam wand, wiping it down with a green cloth. He coughed, gazing somewhere slightly above Castiel’s left ear. “It’s no problem,” He said.

Castiel stopped cleaning the machine and came closer to collect the plates, and Dean could look at him again. “Well, thank you,” Castiel smiled, collecting the dishes and taking them to the sink. “Did your friends enjoy their order?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean leant against the counter, casually admiring how snugly Castiel’s polo shirt fit him underneath his apron. “Yeah, they loved it.”

“That’s good,” Castiel hummed, turning as he heard the bell tinkle. The customers were a mother and daughter, and Castiel smiled his bland customer service smile at them. The pair ordered a hot chocolate and a cappuccino, and answered _yes please_ to Castiel’s query of whether they wanted to have it here.

“Dean, would you like to come round and help me?” Castiel asked, tilting his head at Dean, who nodded eagerly and trotted around the counter.

“So,” Castiel pointed to the large container of cocoa powder. There was a spoon already buried in the light brown powder in the jar. “Two spoonfuls in a small, three in a standard, four in a large.” He ticked them off his fingers. “It’s the same for eat in or take away. Can you grab me the cups I need?” He gestured over his shoulder at where the ceramic have here cups and mugs were stored, and Dean happily obliged, retrieving both a small and a standard and passing them to Castiel.

“So how come you’re not at college today?” Dean asked, peering over Castiel’s shoulder to watch him make the drinks.

“I have the week off,” Castiel answered, stirring the cocoa powder into the smaller cup.

“What’s your major, anyway?” Dean grabbed a carton of milk out of the fridge and passed it to the barista.

“Linguistics,” Castiel turned the knob on the coffee machine and the telltale hissing noise began, swirling the milk around in the jug. Castiel began to froth the liquid, watching the surface bubble and foam with a frown of concentration on his face.

Dean paused for a moment. “Like… languages and phonetics and stuff?” He saw Castiel’s brow smooth out as he cast a sideways glance at Dean and smiled.

“Eloquently put, Dean. But yes. Languages, grammar, syntax, phonetics and… stuff.” Castiel’s gaze returned to the milk, but a small smile was on his face now.

“Are you learning any languages?” Dean was genuinely curious. Castiel began pouring the heated milks into the cups, filling them most of the way before putting them on saucers and then topping them up.

“Are you even paying attention to what I’m doing, Dean?” Castiel cast him an amused look over his shoulder before he dusted chocolate powder across both drinks and slid the mugs to the end of the bench. He gave the mother and daughter his fake smile and told them he hoped they had a nice day before turning back to Dean.

“I was totally paying attention, Cas.” Dean nodded, and watched as Castiel scoffed. But he hadn’t been lying. He had been paying attention, though it had been more directed towards Castiel’s hands and voice and movements than what knobs to turn on the coffee machine and how many scoops of cocoa powder go into a small sized hot chocolate.

“Right,” Castiel’s tone told him he knew Dean wasn’t being totally truthful. He moved back beside Dean and began wiping down the steam wand and milk jugs. Dean waited, shifting on the balls of his feet, hoping Castiel would take his lingering as an invitation to continue their conversation. He saw the other guy throw him another sideways glance, warm blue glimmering between the inky lashes, and sigh, though Dean was almost certain he was fighting a smile as he did so.

“Currently, I’m studying Latin.” Castiel finally continued. “I’m also fluent in Italian and French though,”

Dean frowned. “Dude,” He said. “How _old_ are you? Some people only know, like, one extra language at your age, and, what, you know two? Two and a half?” A look of horror appeared on Dean’s face. “Oh my God. You’re not, like, one of those creepy old people who look like teenagers are you?”

Now it was Castiel’s turn to laugh. “No, I assure you, I am not.” He turned to face Dean, leaning his hip against the bench, wiping the steel jug in his hand aimlessly. “I’m twenty, so still not exactly a teenager.” Castiel’s eyes went blank for a moment while he thought. “Unless you consider that ‘old’?” He raised the hand holding the tea towel and made air quotes, cocking one dark eyebrow at Dean, who consequently went red.

“No!” Dean said hastily, flustered under Castiel’s gaze. “No. Twenty, that’s, uh, that’s perfect.” When Castiel’s other eyebrow rose, the look on his face becoming one of surprise, Dean actually thought about what he had just said and grimaced, backtracking hurriedly.

“And by perfect, I just meant-” He swallowed, his mind beginning to wallow in panic as unintelligible words and noises came out of his mouth as a way of explanation, before short-circuit-ing when Castiel began to laugh. “Uh,” Was all that passed his lips as Castiel closed his eyes, relishing in his amusement, his nose scrunching up slightly, tiny crow’s feet appearing in the corners of his eyes.

“Maybe I should just go,” Dean mumbled, fidgeting on the spot, feeling his cheeks heating up for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He was feeling totally embarrassed, and he thought now was probably the right time to go home, bury himself under his blankets, and never resurface. He turned to go, but stopped midway when a sharp “ _No_!” burst from Castiel’s lips.

Dean looked at Castiel blankly. The other man wasn’t laughing anymore, and a blush was creeping up his neck to blotch his cheeks. Dean blinked and Castiel seemed to retreat back in on himself, setting the jug that was still in his hands on the counter and turning his back onto Dean and grabbed a bottle of all-purpose cleanser, furiously squirting the liquid on the glass doors to the food cabinet and beginning to wipe it down.

“Did you…” Dean started hesitantly, unsure of what to say. Did Castiel object to him leaving because he had needed to teach him something else about the store? Sign some papers or something? Or did he just… not want Dean to leave? “Did you need me for anything else?”

“Uh,” Castiel scrubbed furiously at a mark on the glass, the cloth-on-glass action making a squeaking sound that beat a tiny tattoo against Dean’s eardrums. “No, not particularly. You can go, if you want.”

“Are you okay running this place by yourself if I go?” Dean tried to joke, moving around the other side of the counter and grabbing his bag from the floor where he had thrown it. He bent down slightly and caught Castiel’s eyes though the glass of the cabinet, smiling slightly as Castiel stared back from behind two panes of glass and a plate of macarons, eyes wide and framed by thick inky lashes, the contrast highlighted perfectly as the glass muted most of the colour, throwing it into shades of grey, black and blue.

Castiel straightened up and Dean followed his lead so they were talking over the counter, nothing separating them but air, colours coming back in sharp relief so Dean could appreciate the blush still staining Castiel's cheeks. “I am not alone, Dean.” Castiel frowned a little. “Uriel is here for the day,”

“Who?” Dean said. He hadn’t seen anyone else serving or cleaning.

“He’s in the back,” Castiel waved vaguely behind him in the direction of the door leading to the kitchens.

“Workin’ hard,” Dean snorted.

“I’m sure he is,” Castiel glanced over his shoulder, towards the door. “Stock checks can take hours.”

“Oh,” Dean’s skepticism faded, but Castiel didn’t seem to pick up any negative emotions anyway. “Does he usually work here?” He asked, remembering Castiel’s comment from Sunday about being _Gabriel’s_ only _member of staff now that Balthazar had left_.

“Hm?” Castiel turned back to Dean. “Oh, no, he’s just helping me out this week. Do you want to meet him?”

“What?” Dean said, though Castiel was already moving to the door behind the counter. “No Cas, it’s okay, you don’t have-” But Castiel had poked his head through the door for a moment before returning to Dean.

“You’ll like him,” Castiel’s eyes were warm. “He’s quite funny.”

“Um-” Was all Dean got out before the grumpiest-looking man Dean had ever seen (and that’s including his father _and_ Mr Singer) walked through the door to stand beside Castiel.

“Is this him?” The man grunted.

“Yes.” Castiel answered, nudging the man’s shoulder with his own. “Uriel, this is Dean. Dean, this is Uriel.”

“Hi,” Dean totally didn’t squeak as he nodded at the man, who cocked an eyebrow in return.

“Hello,” Uriel said. There was an awkward silence for a beat where Dean shifted from foot to foot while Castiel and Uriel both stared at him.

“Well then,” Dean scratched his cheek under the gazes of both men. “I guess I should be off.” Uriel turned to check the coffee machines without a word, and Dean was secretly pleased he didn’t have to speak to that guy for any longer.

“Right,” Castiel smiled this time, and Dean laughed at him. “What?” Castiel’s smile dropped off his face.

“You just gave me your customer service smile,” Dean grinned. Castiel looked confused.

“My what?” He asked.

“Your customer service smile. The smile you give to customers when you serve them and give them their food and shit.” Dean’s eyes glimmered with amusement as Castiel tilted his head to the side in confusion. “It’s totally fake, dude! Your real smile looks completely different.”

“My real-” Castiel broke off what he was saying to shake his head, and when he faced Dean again a true smile was gracing his features. Dean beamed back.

“Anyway, Cas, I’ll catch ya next week sometime,” Dean shouldered his bag and took a few steps away from the counter, watching as Castiel’s smile faded.

“You won’t come in for coffee before then?” Castiel asked. “With your friends?”

“Ah,” Dean looked at the floor. “Probably not, Cas.” He scratched his head, glancing at Castiel to see that he was staring at him, most if not all expression faded from his face now. Uriel was unmoving behind him, and Dean presumed he was listening to their conversation, if you could even call it that.

“Alright,” Castiel nodded. “I shall see you for your first shift next week.”

“Yeah,” Dean raised a hand. “I’ll see you.”

Castiel waved back and watched as Dean exited the cafe, bag slung over one shoulder. He felt Uriel move back to his side and saw out of the corner of his eye the man look from him to Dean and back again as the bell tinkled, signalling Dean’s exit. He turned to the dark-skinned man and said, “What?”

Castiel expected accusations, but Uriel smirked at him and turned back to the coffee machines. “Gravity doesn’t agree with him, does it?”

Castiel frowned. “I don’t understand.” He said.

“The deal with his legs,” Uriel walked back to the door and stood by the jamb so he could continue to talk to Castiel.

Castiel thought for a moment. “Oh,” His head tilted to the side again as he appraised Uriel. “You mean his bowlegs?” Castiel felt a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and fought to reign it in. If Uriel knew he thought Dean’s bowlegs were cute, then he’d get punched.

Come to think of it, if Dean knew Castiel though his bowlegs were cute he’d get punched then, too.

Uriel shrugged. “Looks like something’s pushing him closer to the ground.” He said.

Castiel sighed. “I don’t think they’re caused by something trying to squish him, Uriel.”

“I never said that.”

“I’m also relatively sure he’s taller than you, anyway, even with the-”

“Castiel.” Uriel turned to face him fully, arms crossed, voice losing it's hint of mirth.

“What?” Castiel frowned back.

Uriel shook his head. “Be careful,” He said, which only made Castiel’s frown deeper. Before he could ask any more, Uriel turned back to the stock room and disappeared through the door. The bell tinkled and Castiel turned to face another customer, smiling at them, feeling his mouth pull up mechanically, his forehead smoothing out so he wasn’t glowering at them. He was smiling. Fake smiling.

_Your real smile looks completely different._

Now he couldn’t stop the smile that was spreading across his face as the customer came up to the counter. He felt lighter than usual, and the customer raised his eyebrows and offered a half-smile back, that consisted mostly of his beard twitching.

“Hello, sir, what can I get you today?”

“Just a large long black please,” Castiel’s smile, if possible, grew bigger.

“Any sugar?”

“No thanks.”

“Of course,” Castiel punched the order into the register, trying to reign in his smile, but it just wasn’t happening. The customer noticed.

“Why are you so happy, kid?” The man asked, pulling his trucker cap lower onto his forehead. Castiel shrugged.

“Just a good day, I guess. Eat in or take away?”

“Take away,” He took the man’s card and swiped it through the machine.

“Do you want a receipt?”

“No thanks,” The man took his card back and put his wallet back into his jacket.

Castiel made the coffee swiftly, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, before giving the man the cup at the end of the counter with a polite “There you are, sir, and sugar is beside you there if you change your mind about wanting any. Have a good day!”

“Thanks, son,” The man raised his eyebrows in amusement as Castiel farewelled him. “Don’t think my day is going to be as good as yours was, though. Tell your girlfriend she’s lucky you’re so in love with her,” He tipped his cup in Castiel’s direction and left. Castiel watched him go, and he seemed to take some Castiel’s happiness with him, leaving him feeling slightly deflated.

He tapped a rhythm into the counter quickly, thinking about what the man just said. It bothered him a little. It wasn’t that the man had assumed Castiel was straight- he got that a lot. It was that he had assumed Castiel was in love.

He mulled it over. Castiel wasn’t in love. Love was born out knowledge. Knowledge about one person’s likes and dislikes, their quirks and their pet peeves. Love was something acquired after months, maybe even years of knowing someone. And sure, love would make you bounce on your feet and smile until your cheeks hurt, but you know what else made you do that? Infatuation.

Castiel kept tapping the same motion with his fingertips into the counter, frowning at the action. He admitted to himself that, yes, he might have a slight crush on Dean Winchester, but that meant nothing.

Dean was, technically, still a minor. Castiel was twenty years old, and Dean was seventeen. That, in itself, was frowned upon. It wasn’t _illegal_ there in Kansas, persay, but it would be frowned upon even if it was a heterosexual relationship. A homosexual relationship in the Midwest? Not unheard of, but good luck to them.

Castiel sighed and stopped tapping the counter, though only so he could raise a hand and smack his open palm down on to the marble. Then he picked up a cloth and began wiping down the bench and tried to put all thoughts of Dean Winchester out of his mind.

And if he smiled a little too brightly at the customers with green eyes or spoke a little too warmly to those who ordered long blacks, well, who’d know.

* * *

Dean grilled some mean burgers. Like, his spaghetti was good, and his steak was even better. But Tuesday nights in the Winchester household had been burger night since Dean had started cooking, and when he had gotten home from _Slice of Heaven_ , Sam already had the burger meat defrosting in the sink and was sitting at the counter, picking apart a lettuce for the salad.

“Do we _have_ to have salad?” Dean had groaned when he entered the kitchen. Sam didn’t even look up from his lettuce.

“Yes.” Was all he said.

“There’s gonna be lettuce and tomato and shit in the burgers anyway Sam!” Dean knew he was whining but whatever. He was older. He should get to decide when and what nights they had to eat rabbit food.

Sam ignored him, wrapping up the remaining lettuce in a bag and pulling a chopping board and two tomatoes towards him. Dean rolled his eyes and poked at the meat in the sink, sliding his iPod along the bench and telling Sam to choose an appropriate cooking song to kick off burger night.

Sam, like the fucking kiss-ass brother he was, wanted to know all about Dean’s day at school, so by the time Dean had proudly plated up two beef burgers with the lot, he’d wrangled all the details of the majority of Dean’s day, from the nerdy but awesome girl he had sat next to in trig to the texts he had sent at lunchtime.

“She’s going to lend us Harry Potter?” Sam’s eyes were shining like stars, and Dean knew that he’d have to follow Charlie up on her offer now.

“That’s what she said, Sam,” Dean shrugged, but Sam looked like his brother had just offered him the moon. “Dude, chill.” He raised an eyebrow, but it did nothing to quell Sam’s fricken star-eyes.

“Alright, your turn,” Dean proffered before taking a massive bite of burger, just to direct the conversation to a new topic. He listened to Sam tell the story of how he made friends with Jessica Moore, the girl Dean has seen him flatten that morning, and how he finally found Jo Harvelle. Well, more realistically, how Jo Harvelle found him.

“So get this,” Sam starts, putting his burger down. Shit was going to get serious. “I’m there in line in the cafeteria, right, and this chick just comes marching up to me and goes ‘ _Bobby said you were supposed to find me yesterday, dork_.’” Sam looked like he was reliving the painful memory of his one-time experience with gastro in excruciating detail. “And I was like, ‘ _um, who’s Bobby_?’ And then- this is all your fault, by the way, Dean-” Mournful hazel eyes cast him a glance before they go back to contemplating the meaning of life in his half-empty glass of water. “She’s like ‘ _My_ step _father? God, he even said he talked to your dumbass brother yesterday_ ’.”

Sam looked so fucking cut that it was all Dean could do not to laugh. “She gave me a play-by-play of who she, her mother, and her stepfather were in relation to us and dad, Dean.” He moaned. “In front. Of. _Everybody_.” Dean’s shoulders were shaking as he tried to hold in his laughter. Sam was just gazing at some far-off point like someone had just kicked his ass five weeks from Tuesday.

“So how was the café?” Sam asked defeatedly a few minutes later, halfway through a mouthful of burger. Dean had more or less calmed down, and held up a hand and finished swallowing his own bite before taking a drink of water, raising his eyebrows at his brother as Sam _tsk_ ed and waited for Dean’s reply.

“Good,” Was all Dean said before he took another bite. Sam pulled a bitchface and Dean gave him a shit-eating grin as he chewed with his mouth open.

“Ew, Dean, gross,” Sam wrinkled his nose. Dean shrugged at him. “So that’s all you have to say? ‘ _Good_?’” Sam’s impression of Dean’s deeper voice brought another smile to his older brother’s face. He incessantly pressed the issue, nudging Dean’s shin with his foot under the table.

Dean swallowed, getting annoyed, and rolled his eyes exasperatedly. “What do you want me to say, Sam?” He grumbled, kicking his brother back and reverting Sam's ugly mug right back to bitchface one-point-oh. “Oh, we had a grand old time down at the tearoom,” He put on a stuffy accent and grasped his glass, flicking his pinky finger out to the side. “We dined, we drank, and we had a right old laugh.” He lowered his eyes from where they had been aimed at the ceiling to stare dead at Sam as he took another gulp of water.

“Asshole,” Sam muttered. Dean shrugged.

“It’s who I am, Sam. Once you accept it, we can move on,” He said. Sam cut him a glare and they finish their meal in silence. What a way to end burger night.

Dean washed the dishes alone. Usually, he washed and Sam dried while ZZ Top garbled in the background, but tonight Sam had high-tailed it to his room and never returned. Dean had let him go, knowing the guy would serve his time studying. The kid was a major nerd.

Dean scrubbed at a grease stain on the plates and frowned. He had a right to be pissed too. He had described most of his fucking day to Sam, why couldn’t he keep some parts to himself? Sam didn’t deserve to have everything of Dean’s, didn’t deserve to have every detail of Dean’s life.

He felt bad immediately after thinking it. He had no right to be pissed, not really. Sam had just been asking about his day, was just being a good brother and Dean, like usual, had had his head up his ass and killed the moment. He sighed and dumped the plate onto the draining rack before grabbing another, mentally kicking himself. Now he had to go apologise for pissing his brother off and being a dick and then he had to make his lunch for tomorrow and then set aside Sam’s lunch money and then deal with the bills that had been waiting for him to look over on the bench where Sam had brought them in from the mailbox earlier. And then maybe start a load of washing because they’d only been in the new house for about five days but, man, did their clothes get dirty fast.

Dean took a moment. Just one moment. He planted his hand on either sides of the sink and bowed his head, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath in and holding it. He let all the feelings, the ones he kept buried down deep, rise to the surface for that moment and listened.

They yelled and cried and told him all about how it was _unjust_ and _unfair_ and _too much_ and how, if his mother had still been alive, it all would have been different. But that was a no brainer. If Mary Winchester hadn’t died in the arson attack, then John wouldn’t have hunted down her killer and gone on to become a nationally recognised Bounty Hunter. _Bail Enforcement Officer_ was the fancy name given to the job, but, after a few years in the field, John had given in and called the job it’s colloquial office name and, well, Dean would rather have a Hunter as a dad than an Enforcement Officer.

But if John hadn’t become a Bounty Hunter then he wouldn’t leave his children alone week after week as he hunted down criminals, going from state to state as he checked out clues and leads that could lead him through all the back roads of America. Consequently, if Mary hadn’t died, Dean was certain she’d slap John so hard his head would do a full spin round if he even considered abandoning his kids to fend for themselves for five days straight.

It was times like these where Dean wanted a parent. Just one. He knew John didn’t qualify, not really, but he felt guilty even thinking that. He knew his father tried his hardest to support his family and do the right thing, but, sometimes, Dean just wanted the comfort of knowing he wasn’t the one responsible for his household.

He thought about the small cardboard card still tucked in the pocket of his old leather jacket, the messy home number scrawled across it in faded blue pen. There was a small spark of relief to know that, if things got too bad, like if Sam ‘helped’ to much with dinner and cut his fricken hand off, or if the house burnt down, Mr Singer and Ellen Harvelle would ready their assistance. It wasn’t much. Dean knew he couldn’t call them unless circumstances were dire, unless he wanted to be confronted with the crushing disappointment in his father’s face as he rakes a hand over his mouth, eyes crinkling with concern and disappointment, and says, “ _Dean, son, you could have handled this. Why’d you have to drag these people down into your mess_?”

Dean swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut so hard he saw stars, and then the moment was over. He let out the breath he was holding and took all his pitying feelings and put them back in their box, tying it up with string and leaving it in it’s usual place in the locked room at the back of his mind. He silenced the voices and stood up straight, rolling his lips as he put his hands back into the soapy water, wincing slightly at the heat, and finished washing the dishes.

Before he went to bed that night, Dean added the number to his phone, then put the card with Mr Singer’s number on it underneath the house’s outdated landline, printing **Singer and Harvelle’s:** above the digits so Sam would know whose number it was when he saw it. He then checked the locks and windows and crawled in to bed, and by that time he was feeling pretty low. The bills had made his head throb, there had been nothing but stale bread and peanut butter for his sandwich tomorrow, and Sam had been pissy and aggravating when he’d gone to try and apologise and he’d ended up telling Sam to just go to bed.

Dean rolled to the side and cradled his phone in his hands, bringing his knees up halfway so he was curled under the sheets. He shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, feeling wave upon wave of anxiety and remorse wash over him until he was afraid he was going to break his phone because he was gripping it so hard. He opened his eyes and forced himself to uncurl his fingers, staring blankly at the rectangular device in his hand. The light hurt his eyes when he pressed the button to light up the screen of his phone. He released a shaky breath, and before his cognitive mind caught up to what he was doing, he was already punching in a text.

 

**Goodnight Cas.**

 

It was inappropriate, it was stupid, and Dean felt his stomach fall through the floor as soon as his thumb hit ‘send’. He lay rigid for a minute, before sitting up and furiously beginning to type an apology text, erasing and starting it again about six times, trying to get the excuse _just right_ so Castiel didn’t think he was crazy.

And then his phone buzzed, signalling a reply, and he felt his heart sink down to join his stomach. Ready to throw his phone across the room, he clicked on the reply.

 

**Goodnight Dean. I hope you have pleasant dreams.**

 

The smile that spilled across his face was huge.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam got over it. By the end of the week, he was once again all chubby cheeks and dimpled smiles, a regular chatty Cathy at dinner time when he and Dean sat around the worn table, stabbing at whatever Dean could rustle up from the back of the refrigerator. He’d made friends. Sam would, without fail, jabber away about Jess and Brady and Jo every afternoon; Brady said _this_ , Jess did _that_ , Jo punched _him_ , it was all very amusing.

Dean got over it. On the walk to school on Wednesday Dean had truthfully apologised to Sam. He’d told him he hadn’t been looking forward to the bills and had been in a bad mood all night. Which was the truth. Kind of.

Sam had taken pity on Dean and, for the rest of the walk, bitched about John in a way that had made Dean cringe inside. “ _He’s putting too much responsibility on you, Dean_.” Sam had said, and Dean had remained in silence, hands digging deep into the pockets of his jacket as Sam had appraised him as seriously as a thirteen-year-old could. The weather was getting colder, which was strange as it was only midway through spring, and Dean had made Sam wear a beanie that morning to school, so the kid kept pulling it down and pushing his fringe into his eyes. “ _Technically, this isn’t even legal_.” He had continued and, well, Dean couldn’t argue there. He had shrugged it off, and that had had Sam spouting crap about legalities that had somehow ended up with a statement about Atticus Finch and his children and the importance of moral education and Dean was just thanking whatever God was out there that Sam’s school was only a ten minute walk away.

Forgive and forget was truly the motto of Wednesday when Dean had handed Sam a battered, dog-eared paperback copy of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ and had consequently gotten an armful of younger sibling in return. Charlie had not forgotten their deal, apparently, and as soon as Dean had taken a seat in trig, she’d all but thrown the well-read book in his face. He had, in return, squinted at the red cover with his glasses on for a moment before smiling, thanking her, and putting it in his bag, thinking of how happy Sam would be later that day.

And boy, he had _not_ been wrong. At least Sam had been a normal teenager that night and avoided schoolbooks like they were the plague, instead burying his face in Charlie’s well-worn book.

By Friday night, both Dean and Sam were on the ugly couch, Sam in his pyjamas and nosing his way through the last few pages of Harry’s first year at Hogwarts and Dean, still in the jeans and t-shirt he wore to school, leafing slowly through Act IV of _Antony and Cleopatra_. The air was cold, though Dean would bet his baby it was colder outside, and the boys were as close as they could each discreetly get to each other on the couch. Dean checked his watch and sighed. It was just after eleven, and the only reason he hadn’t thrown Sam into bed and tucked him in something fierce was the fact that John should be back any minute.

“He’s probably not coming,” Sam said. Dean glanced at him over his glasses. Sam’s nose was about an inch from the page, his eyes just starting to redden around the edges.

“You need more light to read by,” Dean answered, nudging his glasses up his nose with the back of one hand. “And if he said he’d be back by Friday, he’ll be back by Friday.”

Sam lifted his eyes from the page just long enough to cast Dean a _look_. “Okay, Dean,” Sam said, and Dean could practically see the disbelief dripping out of his brother’s ears. Dean rolled his eyes, the _‘You’ll see’_ hanging unsaid.

He took his glasses off, leaning forward to let them clatter onto the coffee table in front of them. “Sam-” He started, turning to face his brother in time to see Sam raise the book a little higher, shielding his face, like he could block out Dean’s words if he couldn’t see his lips move.

“Dude,” Dean tried again, stretching his neck to try and see Sam’s eyes. Sam raised the book higher. It was childish and immature and would annoy Dean at any other time of the day but the previous night he’d stayed up late to run an extra load of washing and do some physics homework, so now he was tired and Sam being a baby just made him laugh.

“Sammy!” Dean reached out and lowered the book by force, a tired grin on his face. Sam was looking sheepish behind the pages but relaxed when he saw Dean’s smile. Dean reached around and pulled Sam up to his side, ruffling his hair as he dropped _Antony and Cleopatra_ on the ground with the other hand, relishing in his brother’s warmth.

“Just relax Sammy,” Dean petted his brother’s head playfully and Sam huffed against his shoulder. “Just trust dad a little. ‘S’not so hard.”

“But Dean-” Sam started, only to be shushed by Dean patting his cheek.

“None of that.” Dean retorted. Sam rolled his eyes but remained quiet, turning onto his side so he could read while still curled up on Dean’s shoulder. Dean rested his head on the arm of the couch for a moment. They both were still, curled up on the ugly couch, fighting the cool night air, waiting for John to come home.

* * *

Dean woke up the next morning to a sun-drenched loungeroom and the biggest crick in the world folding the vertebrae in his neck. Sam was nestled against his shoulder, and Dean’s face was squashed against the side of the couch, the arm of the chair moist due to the drool that had escaped Dean’s open mouth throughout the night. His legs were thrown over the side and were hanging dead. He couldn’t even wiggle his toes. That was gonna hurt like a bitch when the blood ran back into them.

Dean sighed against the arm of the couch. So John was a no-show. It wouldn’t be the first time, but he had had some faith. He wanted to sit up and stretch his neck out but Sam was still snoring peacefully against the meat of his bicep, half-lying on Dean, and sitting up would result in Sam waking and Dean having to face a stream of _I told you so_ ’s which he didn’t want to deal with.

And then the sound registered. There was a sizzling sound coming from the kitchen, and after hearing it, the smell of frying bacon immediately filled Dean’s nose. This was worth waking Sam for, so he rolled his shoulder, and Sam slid off Dean’s bicep and his face disappeared somewhere between the back of the couch and Dean, before he sat up, groggy and confused.

Dean followed his lead and sat up too, immediately regretting that decision when the blood began to run back to his legs, pins and needles aching something _fierce_. He saw the ratty old blanket, the one that was usually folded in the back of the Impala and had been there since forever, fall off Sam’s shoulders where it had been covering them both and crumple on the floor.

Sam watched it in a daze as it folded upon itself due to gravity, the grey fabric creasing even more and upping it’s desperate need for an iron, before he turned his hazy, bug-eyed gaze to Dean.

“Told ya,” Dean grinned at him and wriggled his toes, ignoring the painful, fuzzy feeling of static roiling through his calves in lieu of getting the feeling back in his legs. He frowned at his denim-covered thighs and lifted his shirt to see that his jeans had cut red marks into his abdomen and hips that weren’t going to fade any time soon. He almost wished they _had_ an iron so he could smooth the wrinkles that pretty much made up his jeans now.

As soon as he could make it without falling on his ass, Dean was stumbling into the kitchen, Sam following him in a sleepy stupor. “Dad!” Dean grinned when he lurched in and saw John working the frying pan like it was made for him.

“Dean!” John was as happy to see his boys as they were to see him. “Sam!” He abandoned the bacon to meet his sons halfway and hug them both. His dark eyes were warm as he gazed at them and nothing could stop the smile spreading on his face. “I’ve missed you boys.”

“We’ve missed you too, dad,” Sam mumbled, leaning into Dean’s shoulder, smiling and content with the world. Dean was beaming, trying to shake off the last dregs of sleepy fog in his mind. He could do with a-

“Where’s the coffee, son?” John had turned back to the bacon and was poking the rashes with a pair of tongs, but the question was addressed to Dean. Dean grimaced.

“Normally in the cupboard above the stove…” Dean winced. “But we ran out.” He swallowed thickly, a taste of cotton and malt filling his mouth. It wasn’t fear, but it was disturbing.

The taste was only there for a moment, and disappeared when John smiled good-naturedly. “You been chewing on the grinds or something, Dean?” He chuckled, and Dean’s face relaxed into a smile, too.

“I can go to the store and buy some today, dad.” He said, and he felt Sam leaning more heavily into his arm. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to fall back to sleep. He jiggled his shoulder up and down in an attempt to wake Sam up. He got a muted “mergh” and a hand swotting his elbow. Sam had never been a morning person, and it _was_ Saturday.

“Good idea,” John nodded, then wrinkled his nose, a gesture Dean had seem Sam make a million times and had made himself. “But for now, would you mind running down to that café of yours and grabbin’ us a couple of to-gos? You said it was in walking distance.”

Dean’s heart sank. Despite the efforts of Garth and Bess, he hadn’t been back to _Slice of Heaven_ since Tuesday, and had had no communication with Gabriel or Castiel since that Tuesday night. He was sticking to his plan, using his free time to study, cook, clean or manage some other dull household chore so his mind wouldn’t dwell or wander. Consequently, that meant that he had been making a lot of coffee at home, and, though it tasted like shit, he had thought it better than the alternative. Until now.

John turned to face him when he didn’t respond right away, and Dean felt his shoulders creep up to meet his ears as his father raised his eyebrows. The shrugging motion, though, made Sam slide forward off Dean’s bicep and stumble forward before John dropped the tongs and caught him.

A hum of laughter escaped Dean’s mouth and when John joined in with a throaty chuckle, the worry slipped out of Dean’s head.

“Sure I can go, dad.” He said, and then glanced at his clothes. “Just gotta change first and then I’ll leave.” John reached down and picked up the tongs after making sure Sam was steady on his feet and turned back to the bacon.

“I’ll keep your food warm till you get back.” He answered, then paused for a moment before adding, “It’s cold out too, so layer up.”

Dean emerged a few minutes later in a fresh clothes, a heavy black coat thrown over the top that he was pretty sure had once belonged to his grandfather. John nodded in approval whilst Sam waved him over to where he was now perched on the bench, and Dean went willingly.

“Here,” Sam said when Dean was close enough, and reached up to pull a beanie on over Dean’s hair. Dean snorted but smoothed it down so it sat securely.

“Thanks, Squirt.” Dean grinned.

“Do you want the matching gloves as well?” Sam asked, swinging his legs so his toes brushed Dean’s knees. He was forming full sentences, so he must be waking up.

“No thanks Sam,” Dean scoffed, and quickly mussed his brother’s hair before saying his goodbyes, stuffing some money in his pockets and quickly shoving his feet into his boots and slamming the door behind him.

Five minutes later, halfway to _Slice of Heaven_ , Dean was rethinking his choices.

“Fuck me,” He moaned, digging his hands under his armpits and tucking his chin to his chest, trying to expose as little skin as possible. His breath was coming out in huffs, and was visible for a good three seconds before the mist dissipated into the frigid air. “ _It’s not even fucking winter yet_!” He spat. He really should have taken those fricken matching gloves.

“Shoulda taken the fu- the fu- the f-f-f- _fuck_!” He couldn’t even string a sentence together, it was that cold. _Shoulda taken the Impala_ , he finished his sentence in his head, albeit grouchily. He had even walked past her, too, as he had started this journey through Hell, lovingly gazing at the gleaming car. It would have taken him two seconds to run inside and get the keys but _no_. Fuck, he was an idiot.

It felt like tiny needles were being stuck into every pore on his face when Dean finally arrived at _Slice of Heaven_. He practically burst through the doors and shut them fast behind him, only to be greeted by the Kaiser Chiefs.

The café was empty. No customers sat at the booths or tables, or stood around the counter. Dean would have thought it was closed if it wasn’t for the cakes lining the display cabinet and the fact that he memorised the opening times for _Slice of Heaven_ already. It was pristine and deserted, except for _Ruby_ blasting from the speakers set on the marble and Gabriel bouncing around behind the counter.

“ _Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby_!” Dean turned to face the counter to see Gabriel working a mop and singing along, using the end of the mophandle as a microphone. It was blessedly warm inside, and Dean flexed his fingers to try and work out the cold. Gabriel noticed Dean’s brash entrance and, not even pausing, pointed a finger at him from behind the counter, shut his eyes, and dramatically continued singing.

“ _Do ya, do ya, do ya, do ya_?” Gabriel dramatically sank out of sight behind the counter as Dean choked with surprised laughter. This was not the way he had imagined is boss acting. He walked further into the store and waited for Gabriel to emerge again.

He didn’t flinch when Gabriel jumped up, only to theatrically collapse _onto_ the counter. “ _The way you do it, do it to me_!” His boss mouthed, and then cracked one amber eye open to squint at Dean.

“Oh come on, boyo, sing along!” Gabriel whined. “You’re no fun,” He said when Dean just grinned at him and shook his head. He straightened up and brushed his hair out of his face, giving Dean a quick once-over. “Cold outside?” He asked, in reference to Dean’s heavy coat and beanie.

Dean nodded earnestly. “That’s, like, ninth circle level shit out there.” Dean answered, patting his cheeks with his hands and feeling how cold they were, feeling a slight lilt of pride at the fact that he hadn’t stuttered.

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. “Dante? Respect,” He nodded and bent down again to pick up the mop where he had abandoned it onto the ground. “Your nose is all cute and pink, bub.” He teased on the way down, and Dean felt his cheeks heat up. Almost without his own consent, his eyes flickered around rapidly, looking for Castiel.

Gabriel emerged, and Dean watched with a growing feeling of dread, as a shit-eating grin spread across his face. “And now your cheeks are all pink!” Gabriel crowed, and Dean raised his shoulders defensively. _Ruby_ finished as Gabriel cackled, and Dean huffed an annoyed breath as another familiar tune started.

Now it was Dean’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Really?” He scrutinised Gabriel, who didn’t even look phased.

“What? Pat Benatar was amazing.” Gabriel replied. “ _You’re the real tough cookie with the long history_ …” He began to sing, and Dean couldn’t help but laugh again.

“What do you do when a customer comes in?” Dean asked.

“Turn it down or off if the customer looks like they have a stick up their ass,” Gabriel waved at the speakers to indicate what he would turn off. “But we don’t get many people this early.” He shrugged.

“Okay,” Dean nodded. “So, can I order something?” Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out the cash he’d brought.

“Sure thing,” Gabriel perked up and moved in front of the register, though he was still bopping his head to _Hit Me With Your Best Shot_. “What can I get ya, Deano?”

Dean wrinkled his nose at the name and opened his mouth to answer, but before he could the bell above the door rang and interrupted him.

“Castiel Novak!” Gabriel yelled out around Dean, and Dean looked over his shoulder to see a very dishevelled Castiel in an oversized tan trench coat on top of his uniform, sans apron, look up at the sound of his name, blue eyes wide and hair tousled all to Hell. “You’re late!”

Castiel’s eyes flickered from Gabriel to Dean, and Dean grinned over his shoulder at the sight. Castiel’s cheeks and the tip of his nose were pink with cold, and he was trying to shrug off the coat easily but it seemed to be caught around his shoulders. But he smiled back at Dean whilst shimmying his shoulders and trying to get out of his coat, and Dean’s heart gave a forceful thump in his chest.

Dean swallowed and turned back to the counter, ready to order, but Gabriel was walking around it, bellowing song lyrics at his brother. Dean rolled his eyes, checking his watch before turning around _again_ to view the familial interaction.

“What if it had been busy?” Gabriel cried, gesturing to the empty shop. The look of bored disdain that graced Castiel’s features brought the smile right back to Dean’s face, even as he shifted nervously, pressed for time.

“Gabriel,” Castiel’s voice hit Dean like a sack of bricks. He had forgotten how gravelly and stormy that voice sounded, and he just held back a shiver that had nothing to do with the last lingerings of the cold outside air. “You get, on average, ten people over the expanse of the hour between seven and eight. It is now seventeen minutes past eight, and I alerted you last night that I was not coming in until eight thirty.” Castiel’s sentence ended on a slightly higher note that, on any normal person, would be the equivalent of a triumphant “take THAT.”

“Ooh, burn,” Dean chortled from the counter when Gabriel didn’t reply, which earned him a guffaw from Gabriel and a smug look from Castiel. Dean met his blue eyes, and Castiel’s mouth curved up slightly in the corner, just enough for Dean to notice, and Dean felt fulfilled.

He could tick ‘make the guy you have a ridiculous crush on smile by using a stupid comment’ off his day’s to-do list. Score.

“Shut it, fruitcake,” Gabriel pointed at him and Dean shrugged. Castiel manoeuvred around his brother and walked presumably towards the back room with his coat folded primly over one arm. When he drew level with Dean he met his eyes and smiled again.

“Hello, Dean,” He nodded, and Dean didn’t feel cold at all any more, warm all the way down to his fingertips.

“Heya, Cas,” He said in reply, probably in a more hushed tone than necessary. Castiel continued on to the back room and Dean watched him go before realising what he was doing and facing the register, hoping no one- meaning Gabriel- had noticed.

“So, seriously, can I order?” Dean asked when Gabriel returned to the counter a few steps behind Castiel, which only served to get him a peevish look from his boss.

“I dunno if I want to serve you anymore,” Gabriel said in return. “You ganged up on me,” Dean threw him a charming smile. “With my _brother_.” Gabriel’s face was a mixture of disgust and disappointment, and Dean’s grin didn’t waver. Gabriel sighed. “ _Fine_ ,” He grumbled, like Dean was a petulant child he was indulging.

“Two large long blacks, and a standard hot chocolate please.” Dean beamed. “Oh, uh, all extra hot.” Gabriel quirked an eyebrow. “Please,” Dean repeated.

He handed over the money and Gabriel took it with a nod of thanks. As he gave Dean his change, Castiel emerged from the back room tying his apron around his waist. He glanced at the order on the register as it came through and proceeded to walk to the fridge, telling Gabriel he’d make it if he wanted to “get back to his mopping”.

“You don’t start for another ten minutes,” Gabriel retorted. Castiel shrugged.

“I’m here now, may as well start early,” He replied, running his hands down his chest to his thighs to straighten out the wrinkles in his apron. “I’ve got nothing else to do,”

Gabriel gave in gracefully, swinging his mop around and continuing to clean as the Bee Gees began to trill out of the speakers. Dean wrinkled his nose at the song and looked at Castiel, who rolled his eyes in return, an expression of amusement in his eyes.

“You on a coffee run?” Castiel asked as he crouched to get milk out of the fridge.

“Yeah,” Now it was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes. “We ran out of coffee at home. And this way, Sam gets a hot drink too.”

“Sam.” A crease formed between Castiel’s eyebrows as he frowned a little in thought, unscrewing the lid on the jug of milk. He didn’t even startle when Gabriel histrionically cried “ _Tragedy_!” from behind him, in perfect time with the Bee Gees.

“My brother,” Dean said easily, laying his forearms down on the counter and leaning on them, watching Castiel with maybe a little too much focus.

“Oh, I didn’t know you had a brother.” Castiel’s brow smoothed out and his eyes warmed. He let out a huff of breath and turned his gaze from Dean to the milk he was about the froth. The rattling of the machine filled the silence next as coffee ran into the cardboard cups and Gabriel’s sneakers scuffed the floorboards.

Dean drummed his fingers on the marble counter and watched the side of Castiel’s face, eyes flickering down to the coffee whenever Castiel’s eyes flitted up to glance at him. He felt like he was back in elementary school and watching the prettiest girl from the other side of the classroom, pretending to have never been looking her way when she turned her eyes towards him. But this was different. He felt like Castiel was observing him in almost the same way he was, and this time he wasn’t ten and ignorant to what people did when they liked each other. This time, he thought, this time was different, because _Castiel_ was different.

But it didn’t matter how different Castiel was, Dean couldn’t do anything about it.

“Here are your drinks, Dean,” The now-familiar voice brought Dean out of his thoughts, and he turned his gaze from where it had been fixed on the side of the coffee machine to Castiel.

“Thanks Cas,” Dean smiled, carefully taking the cardboard tray holding the three cups from the other man’s hands, making sure he didn’t accidentally touch Castiel’s fingers. “I’ll see you round, then,”

“Yes,” Castiel answered. “I shall see you this week, I hope.”

 _I hope_. Two small words that could hold a very big meaning.

He couldn’t help it. He raised his eyes from the tray to Castiel and winked, watching as Castiel’s eyes went wide and his chapped lips snap shut, jaw rippling.

“You sure will,” Dean smirked. “See ya,” He nodded to Castiel, heart thudding in his chest, a mantra of _play it cool, Winchester, play it cool,_ circling around his head. He called out a goodbye to Gabriel, too, before clutching the coffees to his chest and leaving the store, letting out a quiet yelp of emotion when he was out of earshot.

* * *

“Yo!” Dean called when he kicked the door open, mindful of the shoes probably cluttered just beyond. He sidestepped them carefully and followed Sam’s answering call to the kitchen. He found Sam and John both sitting at the table, John reading the newspaper, Sam chewing the last half of a slice of toast.

“Your food is in the oven,” John said in answer to Dean depositing his coffee in front of his father. Dean thanked him and placed Sam’s hot chocolate in front of him on his way to the oven. Using the tea towel he got the plate out and placed it on the placement Sam pushed to the side of the table closest to him.

“So I thought we’d go to The Roadhouse tonight for dinner,” John said as Dean sat in his chair between them. John had made him their usual Saturday morning breakfast: two slices of toast with three rashers of bacon and two fried eggs sitting on top. Dean stabbed the egg yolks with his knife and watched the yellow bleed over the greasy bacon and the white home brand bread before looking at John.

“Sure,” Dean shrugged. “They sell burgers, right?” John nodded. “Then I’m happy to go,”

John snorted. “Of course,” He smiled and shook his head as his eyes returned to the paper in front of him. Dean began shovelling his mouth with food as Sam finished his last bite. “Sam?” John inquired without looking at the kid, and Dean felt the almost irresistible urge to give a derogatory snort. It’s not like they had a choice whether to go tonight or not, but John was asking anyway. If they refused, he would just make them go.

“Yeah dad,” Sam said over the rim of his hot chocolate. “Sounds good.” His hazel eyes flitted to Dean, who quirked his eyebrows in response, the silent message passing between them spelling out _like we had a choice_.

“Great,” John set down his paper and took a sip of his coffee. “Damn,” He drew back from the rim and Dean froze, the food going dry in his mouth. Bad coffee meant a bad mood for John, and that was the last thing the boys wanted. “Good stuff, Dean,” John remarked, smacking his lips and looking at his cup in what was almost admiration, and Dean exhaled with relief. He felt the urge to spit out his tasteless mouthful, but he had no real reason to, so he swallowed thickly, coughing a little as it went down.

He blurted out the first thing that came to mind in response. “Yeah, Cas made it, dad. He’s the best.”

John looked at him from under dark brows, scepticism written on his face. Dean felt his cheeks heat up as he thought about what he’d just said. “The best at making coffees, I mean.” He rambled on, wishing more and more that the floor would open up and swallow him. “He’s going to teach me coffee. Teach me to make coffee. At work. He works with me. Coworker.”

His face felt like it was on fire. Dean stopped talking and stared down at his plate, cutting a huge bite of toast and wedging it in his mouth. It was like chewing carpet, and he could feel the blood pulsing in his cheeks, but he waited. John remained silent, and, once he’d swallowed, Dean hesitantly raised his eyes. John was looking at his shrewdly, but as he opened his mouth to say something, Sam cut across him with; “Is Cas the guy you thought was a robber?”

Dean could have kissed him. “Oh yeah. It’s a funny story, dad.” He looked eagerly at John and thanked fuck that his dad looked distracted. He saw Sam smirk into his cup, and he knew he’d owe the kid one later, but, for now, he focused on telling his father about his job interview.

* * *

“John Winchester!” It sounded like a greeting, but when the three Winchesters turned to look at the lady walking towards them across the wooden floor, Dean felt like hiding. She had sharp eyes and a mouth pulled into a scowl, though she radiated a mothering air at the same time. It was confusing, and he felt Sam draw closer to his side as the woman approached.

“Ellen!” John called back in greeting, and met the woman halfway only to receive an albeit affectionate slap on the shoulder for his trouble.

The Roadhouse hadn’t looked like much from the outside and, when they had rolled up in the gravel parking lot in the Impala, Dean would have thought they’d gone to the wrong place if John ever got lost. But his father had been completely at ease when he had exited the car and walked towards the low, tin-roofed building, and Dean and Sam had scampered behind him to keep up.

It was bigger inside than Dean had expected, the bar off along the wall to the right, the other three walls lined with booths, tables evenly littering the space between. There were a couple of pool tables nearer to the back, the cues lined up evenly on wooden holders fixed to the walls. The air was dry but warm, and the hum of the few chattering patrons gave it a homey feel as soon as they set foot inside. Dean found himself liking it already, until John had caught the attention of the scary woman now looking at him like she was about the kick his ass to Mexico.

She stared at him, and he felt Sam shift anxiously by his side. Dean stared back, a little trepidation in his eyes, until suddenly she was smiling, her eyes crinkling up in the corners, and coming forward to embrace him and then Sam, before pointing John towards the back and putting a hand on either boy’s shoulders and steering them towards a booth and away from their father.

Sitting them in the cracked leather seats of the booth, Ellen produced three laminated menus from who knows where and set them on the table.

“So,” She started, and Dean fought the urge to fidget in his seat. “Dean?” Ellen indicated to him, and he nodded. “Sam.” The one wasn’t a question when she flicked her finger towards Sam, but he nodded anyway. “I’ve heard so much about you boys,” Ellen’s smile was warm and affectionate as she gave them both a studied once-over.

She told them to order something big and fatty because they’re both _lookin’ pretty_ _peaky_ in her words and then went off the take care of some new arrivals. The menu was pretty limited but it was also mostly burgers so Dean was fine with that. Sam was having more trouble.

“Listen to this.” Sam wrinkled his nose as he squinted at the menu. “ _A grilled beef patty with beetroot, red onion, Swiss cheese and tomato relish served on a sourdough bun_. Like,” He raised his eyes to Dean and almost looked panicked. “This is so unhealth- _ow_!”

The pool cue that had just nudged Sam in the temple retracted and both boys turned to see the petite blonde holding the end, a smug smirk on her face.

“ _Jo_!” Sam whined like the little bitch he was. Dean tried to restrain his laughter. “You could have taken my _eye_ out!” The girl just shrugged in response.

“Why’re you here, Sam?” She ignored his bitching and turned to Dean. “This Dean?” She raked her eyes across his face and he smiled easily, the grin turning a little teasing around the edges as he watched her cheeks heat up.

“Hey,” He said, and though there was a blush staining her cheeks, Jo met his gaze without flinching.

Sam sighed. “Dean, this is Jo. Jo, this is Dean.” Jo let the cue fall through her hand until the butt hit the worn floorboards with a soft _thump_ and flexed her fingers where they now rested closer to the tip.

She opened her mouth to say something, but at that moment, John had returned. “Well well.” John smiled down at Jo, who looked about as big as a doll next to him. “Joanna Beth. Nice to see you.”

“Joanna Beth?” Sam piped up, and Dean knew that tone. That tone meant Sam had found some serious digging material on you and _man_ , was he going to bring it up, be it now or later. If she wasn’t blushing before, Jo sure was now.

“Hello,” She muttered to John, tapping the butt of the cue on the ground. She stood there awkwardly for another moment as John slid in Sam’s side of the booth and then turned and walked off, swinging the cue beside her.

When Ellen returned to take their orders, John had just finished telling them about how he’d just nipped around the back to quickly talk to Bobby. Dean was kinda glad Mr Singer wasn’t out there- seeing teachers out of school was just plain trippy. They all ordered burgers, even Sam, and the burgers arrived not too shortly after, all with a side of chips, though the boys’ servings of fries looked a little larger than John’s. Dean guessed Ellen had put the dishes together herself.

They were delicious, and Dean was legitimately full for the first time in a week when they paid their bill.

When they got to the door, Ellen gave Dean a waxed box and told him it was his and Sam’s _provisions_ for the next week. He was dumbfounded, but thanked her anyway and only flipped the lid open when they were back in the Impala. It was an apple and cinnamon pie and Dean thought he was either going to cry or faint. It looked delicious and smelt even better, and he was so having pie for dinner sometime next week.

They got home, and John collapsed onto the ugly couch while Dean booted Sam’s ass into the bathroom for a shower on the grounds that he stank (he didn’t). He then moseyed to the kitchen to put the pie in the emptying fridge. Clucking, Dean figured he’d head to the shops tomorrow. He needed to pick up coffee anyway, may as well do the groceries while he was there.

His phone buzzed in the back pocket of his jeans and the screen alerted him to a text from _Gabriel Novak_.

 

**hey deano, just reminding u that uve got ur first ever shift on monday, 3.30-8! both cassie and i will be there, so if u stink, itll be ok cos we can swoop in and save u :)  see u then, bub. xoxo**

 

Dean wrinkled his nose. No one had ever texted him this way before, but that may have been because the people who texted him had been limited to around three people before they had moved here. Now, that number had exponentially grown to around nine. Mostly it was either Garth asking how his day was (even after they’d said goodbye at school like three hours ago) or Charlie sending him random Star Wars quotes. Sometimes Benny would send him a question about _Antony and Cleopatra_ or the video game _Purgatory_ , but that was pretty rare. All of them used correct grammar though, or at least capital letters. And none of them signed off with _xoxo_.

Rolling his eyes, he punched in a quick (grammatically correct) reply confirming his knowledge about Monday and was frankly amazed by the speed of which Gabriel replied. Admittedly, the reply only consisted of several celebrating emoticons, but still. Did his boss have nothing better to do?

His phone beeped again and he almost didn’t open it.

 

**cassie just said he was looking forward to ur shift. feel special**

 

Apparently his boss _didn’t_ have anything better to do.

Dean narrowed his eyes and contemplated the message. Deciding it was most likely brotherly teasing, Gabriel trying to rib Castiel into being awkward, Dean got out of the message and promptly almost threw his phone across the room when it vibrated again. Did his boss have no boundaries? Like, Jesus Christ.

 

**dont forget ur uniform. cas says u will look nice in blue**

 

Thumping his head against the refrigerator, Dean was almost surprised to find a large amount of amusement mixed in with his frustration. Like, forty-eight per cent frustration, fifty-two per cent amusement. His phone buzzed again.

Sixty percent frustration, forty per cent amusement.

 

**we should talk to him about getting hats. hell listen to u. he likes u**

 

He really hoped he wasn’t expected to reply.

He made his way to his bedroom and his phone was unbelievably _still_ lighting up. To be fair, he was pretty sure one of them was from Garth asking how his Saturday had been. He liked Garth. It was nice to have a friend that was legitimately interested in how you were.

He took a shower after Sam, and when he got back, shower-fresh and relaxed, he scanned through the remainder of the texts. They were mostly consisting of things like **u can bring oven mitts if u dont want to burn urself on the steam wand** and **sometimes people leave their dogs outside the store and i sneak out to pat them** but he was surprised that, after he exited Gabriel’s texts there was one from _Castiel Novak_.

Chewing his lip, he opened and replied to _G-Dog_ ’s (Garth had entered his own details into Dean’s phone) message before selecting Castiel’s curiously.

 

**Hello Dean. It has come to my attention that Gabriel is texting you and I know he can be bothersome so if he is irritating you just tell him and he’ll stop.**

 

Grinning, he punched in his own reply.

 

**It’s kinda funny really.**

 

Not thirty seconds had passed when his phone vibrated with another text from Gabriel.

 

**how come u reply to cassie and not me?????**

  
Dean decided that it was probably time to turn his phone off for the night.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean was going to die.

His funeral would be a simple thing. Closed casket. Sam would be bawling his eyes out of course, but Jess and Jo and Brady would be there to comfort him while he sobbed into Dean’s old leather jacket because _it smelt so much like his brother_ when in reality it just smelt like leather and their dad. Speaking of, John would be standing off to the side, hands clasped painfully tight in front of him, mournful but dry-eyed in his best suit, not thinking _where did I go wrong_ but _why did this happen_. Ellen Harvelle and Bobby Singer would be nearby, offering support in this period of mourning, and maybe even Castiel and Gabriel Novak would be in the back row of pews, offering their condolences to the remaining two Winchesters. But ultimately there would only be one question on everyone’s mind. Cause of death.

And no one would ever know it was because of blue balls. Everyone would move on with their lives and Castiel would go back to working at _Slice of Heaven_ and never realise it was him cleaning the steam wand of the coffee machine that had killed Dean on his first shift.

“Dean,” Dean blinked.

“Hrngh,” He answered, looking up from where he had been staring at the side of the coffee machine to meet Castiel’s eyes. He swallowed thickly and took a deep breath. He was ninety-eight per cent sure if he popped a boner on his first shift he would be so, so fired and would definitely not be receiving a written recommendation that would help him get another job.

But Castiel was fucking jerking off that steam wand and it was about to _blow his brains out_. Never in his life would Dean have thought he would be jealous of a thin metal tube, and yet, there he was.

“Dean are you listening to me?” Castiel repeated.

“Sorry, sorry.” Dean winced and patted down the front of his new, stiff apron, reaching around and tightening the bow he’d hastily tied when Gabriel had thrown the apron at his head as he had walked in the store.

Castiel huffed with annoyance and leant a hip against the counter, cocking one dark eyebrow and glowering. This was not helping Dean’s situation one bit.

“So…” Dean pursed his lips and raised his gaze from Castiel’s smouldering blue eyes to the roof. “The green cloth… is for the steam wand.”

“Correct, but that’s not what I asked you.” Castiel sighed, and Dean lowered his eyes to give him a meek smile. “I _asked_ you,” The stern look couldn’t stay on Castiel’s face, and as Dean watched, the hard line of his mouth melted and twitched in the corner and he swore Castiel was two seconds away from smiling. “If you would please pass me a medium to-go cup.”

“Oh.” Dean felt his cheeks heat up and he grabbed one and practically threw it at Castiel. “Sorry. Sorry.” The woman waiting at the counter failed to stifle her giggle and even Dean’s ears were red. “I’m sorry.”

“Dean, Dean, it’s alright.” Castiel reached over and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. It was only for a second, just a small touch for reassurance, but even after he withdrew Dean felt like a handprint was burnt into his skin. That, combined with hearing Castiel rumble his name _twice in a row_ kinda just made Dean want to melt.

Jesus Christ, he was so done for.

“I’m gonna go change a bin,” Dean mumbled, face ducked, eyes on the floor. He scrambled away from Castiel and the coffee machine, plucking at his apron as he did so.

John had again left early that Monday morning, taking the Impala and the sense of gruff paternal reassurance with him, leaving behind only the leftover meatloaf he’d made for dinner the night before. He had told Dean and Sam that he would most likely not be back until Saturday lunchtime and that if they were going to sleep out in the lounge room again make sure to at least bring a blanket.

The cold weather had worked itself out, and the boys had walked to school in pale sunlight, Sam walking ahead, eager to get to their destination and learn and shit, and Dean grumbling about his bulging bag, filled with the added weight of his work uniform, lagging behind.

On the way, Sam had had to reassure Dean that, yes, he wasn’t completely incompetent and could cook a meal for himself, though Dean reminded him that one time with the beef ragu and got rewarded with a huff and a punch in the shoulder for his troubles.

At the gates of the middle school, Sam had turned to face Dean and crossed his arms across his chest. “Uh oh,” Dean had joked, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, Dean,” Sam had said, squinting up at him, and Dean tried to keep the amusement off his face and pay attention. “I don’t want you getting distracted at work tonight because you’re worrying if I’ve fed myself.”

“Sam-” Dean had started, but his brother just shooed him off as he spotted his friends, and Dean had just raised his hands in surrender and walked off.

But, now, Dean would have much rather have been fretting about if Sam was feeding himself than what he was really worrying over- which was the correct way to tie the garbage bags up.

He had walked into _Slice of Heaven_ at 3.22pm and his only problem at the time was that he had realised that he was going to hear that little silver bell above the door jingle every time a customer walked in or out of the store for four-and-a-half hours.

Both Castiel and Gabriel had been behind the counter, Castiel taking orders while Gabriel fished around in the display cabinet for some macarons. After they’d finished serving their customers, Gabriel had darted into the back room for a moment before returning with an apron and promptly hurled it across the store to Dean. That act in itself had been redundant as Gabriel had then gestured for Dean to walk over and put his things in the back room and get ready for his shift.

Dean had started, eager, ready to serve on the register and make coffees, but when he had asked Gabriel what he was doing first, he had been marched over to a bin in the customer dining area and shown the correct way to change it. Apparently, tying a garbage bag once was just not gonna cut it there at _Slice of Heaven._ Nope. You had to pinch in the corners (that’s right- the corners of a _circular bag_ ) and bring them in to tie the bag _four times_ to satisfy Gabriel, but, truthfully, Dean didn’t mind. It made sense and it took, like, two extra seconds. No big.

The ‘big’ was that, after changing _all_ the bins (there were two in the dining room and one behind the counter as well as two more in the back room), Dean felt he deserved to learn how to make coffee now. But no. After the bins, he got to learn the secrets of the colour-coded cloths.

“The green cloth is for the steam wand,” Castiel had taken Dean lightly by the elbow and steered him towards the end of the counter, where there was a drawer filled with neatly-folded cloths. Choosing a green one, he let go of Dean and held it up in front of their eyes. “See how it’s softer? We don’t want to damage the coffee machines so we use the softer ones on the steam wand.”

“Got it,” Dean grinned at Castiel around the cloth. Castiel gave him a small smile in return before folding the cloth back into perfect quarters and putting it in the drawer.

“Pink is for the sink,” Gabriel sang from behind them. Dean tensed with surprise and looked over his shoulder to see the manager raising his eyebrows mischievously at them both. “Cassie, you got a customer. I’ll look after Dean.” He continued.

“Of course.” Castiel replied smoothly and stepped around Dean to greet the elderly couple at the counter.

“Pink is for the sink,” Gabriel then repeated, snatching a pink-striped cloth out of the drawer and waving it at Dean. “That’s the easiest way to remember it. It’s to clean all the stainless steel in the place when we do a detail-clean, or just when you wanna give some steel a wipedown.”

“Roger that, captain.” Dean affirmed. He glanced behind him at the counter and saw Castiel giving the customers that fake smile of his. It made Dean’s lips pull up at the corners with amusement.

“Lastly,” Gabriel brought Dean’s attention back to the cloths. “The yellow cloth is for surfaces.”  Gabriel had already grabbed out the striped material and run it under the tap, squeezing the newly wet cloth out into the sink to get rid of any excess water. He then folded it in half, then in half again, and handed it to Dean. “Have at it,” He grinned, waving his arms extravagantly at the counter. Dean’s amusement disappeared and he pulled a face and sighed, turning to the marble and placing the cloth down.

“Oh and Dean?” Gabriel was walking towards the back room. Dean looked up for where he’d miserably been staring at the cloth. “Have at it in a figure-eight motion, will ya?” Gabriel mimed the movement in the air. “We find it cleans better.”

Twenty minutes later, Dean had been wiping down the last table in the dining room. “ _Have at it in a figure-eight motion, will ya_?” He had muttered under his breath, scrubbing at a sticky stain someone had left on the marble. He never realised how messy customers were until now. “ _We find it cleans better_.” His impersonation was so off that he would have been more accurate if he was trying to sound like Mickey Mouse, not Gabriel Novak, but he couldn’t even care.

Straightening up, he had walked back to front counter and Castiel had gestured him over to the coffee machine where he had been frothing some milk. “Dean,” Castiel had said. “Grab me a green cloth for the steam wand, would you? Please?” So Dean had gone to get one, pass it quickly under some water from the tap and hand it to Castiel, who placed it beside the coffee machine and finished making the chai latté for his customer. Dean had stayed by his side to watch (making a chai latté was kinda similar to making a hot chocolate), and when Castiel had returned to the coffee machine, he had pushed the knob to let out a spurt of steam, picked up the cloth and Dean had pretty much been bug-eyed staring as Castiel had wiped down the steam wand.

He had had to tear his gaze away from Castiel‘s hands to the side of the coffee machine to keep himself from imploding.

“I’m gonna go change a bin,”

There had been no bins to change in the dining room, and Dean really didn’t want to venture back behind the counter to be soothed and pitied by Castiel, but he couldn’t stay out there doing nothing. So he meekly returned with his spoils of war (he had found one used mug out there in the dining room) and stood beside Castiel, who was now wiping down the bench.

“No bins needed changing.” He said. Castiel, far from looking annoyed or peeved, had a soft expression of amusement on his face.

“Okay,” He said simply in reply. He put down his cloth and moved towards the register. “While there are no customers, do you want to try the register out, Dean?”

Dean felt himself brighten, and he saw Castiel smile. “Hell yes,” He said, putting the cup down and moving to stand at Castiel’s side. Maybe he stood a little closer than necessary, but Castiel didn’t seem bothered by the lack of personal space and no one seemed to mind. Gabriel had taken the lull in service as an opportunity to disappear into the back room to do ‘bookwork’, but Castiel had whispered to Dean that bookwork meant either a candy break or a nap and Dean was more willing to take Castiel’s word for it.

Dean felt good about the register. It was a machine. Simple, easy, mapped out, logical. Everything had it’s place on the screen and he could find it all easy enough. It wasn’t so bad.

The bell jingled and both Dean and Castiel looked up from the screen to watch the customer walk in. Castiel blinked. It was the man who had come in last Tuesday and had told him to _tell his girlfriend she was lucky he was so in love with her_. Same trucker cap, same beard, and Castiel was pretty sure he was wearing the same green jacket as last week too.

He felt Dean withdraw from the register, obviously expecting Castiel to take the order, but Castiel was having none of that. “Here, Dean,” Castiel turned and pressed his hand against Dean’s back, below the tie of his apron. He could feel the waistband of Dean’s jeans through his polo shirt beneath the palm of his hand, and hoped Dean wasn’t going to think this was inappropriate.

Applying pressure, he drew Dean back towards the counter as the customer approached. “You can take the order, right?” The skin of Dean’s waist was burning hot beneath Castiel’s hand, even through the layers.

Dean swallowed, definitely aware that Castiel still hadn’t taken his hand away, even though they were both standing at the register now, side by side. “Uh, dude,” He leant in closer, and boundaries, what boundaries? “That guy’s my teacher.” He didn’t give two flying fucks if Mr Singer had just walked in or not. He was transfixed at the fact that he was practically whispering to Castiel, and that he was leaning in so close that the dark hair above Castiel’s ear was fluttering with every word he got out. And Castiel still had not removed his hand.

“Then he should be extra nice to you,” Castiel turned his head towards him, and now Dean’s lips were hovering above his temple instead of the shell of Castiel’s ear.

“Dean?”

“Mr Singer!” Dean straightened up and he felt the hand drop from his back before Castiel took a few steps back from the register. “Hi!”

“I didn’t know you worked here, boy.” Mr Singer grunted.

“Today is actually my first shift,” Dean shifted his feet. He saw Mr Singer raise his eyebrows.

“You better not mess up my coffee then, son,” It took him a moment to realise that Mr Singer was teasing him. People who looked that scary shouldn’t be allowed to tease anyone.

“Don’t worry sir,” Castiel interjected. “I’ll be the one making the coffee. Dean here will just be taking your order.” Smooth save.

“Alright then,” Mr Singer shrugged. “I’ll have a large long black, thanks.”

“Roger that,” Dean muttered, finger hovering above the screen of the register as he looked for the ‘long black’ option. He swore it was there a minute ago.

“Don’t you wear glasses to read, son?” Mr Singer said when he saw Dean starting to get distressed, and Dean glanced up to see that he looked more amused at Dean’s strain rather than annoyed that he was taking so long to take the order. He might have to wear his glasses on his next shift if he was taking a lot of orders. Bummer.

He felt Castiel lean in close. “Try a little further down,” A hand, more long-fingered and slightly paler than his own, pushed gently at his knuckles and guided his pointer finger to the bottom row of the listed items, and Dean finally saw the little icon that said ‘long black’.

Grinning, he pushed it. The order came up as a large long black to take away. “Dean,” Castiel prompted, still practically hanging over his shoulder. He felt his glimmer of pride diminish at Castiel’s chiding tone. “Did your customer _say_ it was to-go, or did you just assume?”

“I-” Dean felt like the kid who got his hand caught in the cookie jar. He met Castiel’s gaze and sighed. “I assumed.”

“So?” Castiel prodded.

“So…” Dean fidgeted, finger still hovering above the screen.

“So, maybe, ask him.” Castiel metaphorically smacked the hand Dean had in the metaphorical cookie jar and it hurt. Allegorically.

“Was that to eat in, or take away, Mr Singer?” Dean had to almost physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. “And please stop looking like you’re enjoying this.”

He saw Mr Singer’s beard twitch again, and the man had a spark of hilarity in his eyes that were swamped in the shadow of his trucker cap. “No promises,” He answered. Dean huffed. “And I’ll take it to-go, thanks.”

Dean wasn’t going to poke his tongue out at Castiel like a two year old. He was above that. He was.

But _God_ , was it tempting.

He settled for a smug look cast over his shoulder at Castiel, and proceeded to tell Mr Singer his total and take the money he was offered. Castiel didn’t even looked swayed, and Mr Singer was just laughing, whether at Dean or at them both, he didn’t know.

“So what’s Sam doin’?” Mr Singer asked him as Dean handed him his change.

“Uh, studying, probably,” Dean wrinkled his nose. “At home.”

“At home?” Mr Singer repeated. “By himself?”

“Well, yeah,” Dean shrugged. Mr Singer continued to look alarmed. “But, it’s okay, sir. I mean, haven’t you ever seen _Home Alone_? If anyone tries to break in Sam will just shove ‘em off the roof or tip some tar or glue on ‘em or something.” Apparently, judging by the way Mr Singer was glaring at him, humour was not the way to comfort the man.

“Dean, he’s _thirteen_ -”

“Here’s your coffee, sir,” Castiel cut in, sliding the cup across the marble. Castiel gained a new level of respect in Dean’s eyes. He would never have the balls to interrupt Mr Singer, let alone Mr Singer in the middle of an argument.

“Thanks, son,” Mr Singer said distractedly, but Dean was surprised to see some of the fire in his eyes was dimming.

“Sir, I wouldn’t leave Sam at home if I knew he wasn’t capable of looking after himself,” Dean told him earnestly, pleading with his teacher. He felt the shame creep up on him, the doubt swamping his mind. Maybe he shouldn’t have left Sam at home. For God’s sake, Mr Singer was right, he was _thirteen_ -

“No, Dean, you’re right,” Mr Singer, nodded at him, and Dean’s wreckage of a thought train halted. “Sam’s a smart kid, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I…” Dean stared down at the register for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah.” Mr Singer reached across the counter and tapped him gently on the top of the head with an open palm.

“I gotta go, anyway, Dean. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” Mr Singer said, and then nodded at Castiel. “Thanks, son.”

“Well,” Dean said flatly as Mr Singer walked out of the store. “That was fun. I kinda suck at taking orders though.”

“Hey,” Castiel shrugged, grabbing a new bag of coffee beans and a knife to slice the bag open. “Normally they don’t ask you about your family and your decisions.”

“So you…” Dean got distracted for a moment as Castiel reached up on his toes to tip the beans into the top of the grinder, and his slightly-too-tight polo shirt rode a little high, exposing a pale strip of skin and Jesus Christ was that a hip bone? Dean was pretty sure it was a crime to have hip bones that sharp. That was it. He was gonna have to put Castiel under arrest. Hand cuffs were a must.

“I what?” Castiel bounced a little when he landed back onto the soles of his feet and Dean shook his head to clear it.

“So you think Sam will be okay at home?” He pursed his lips and looked Castiel in the eye, like, _no I wasn’t just staring at your hips and imagining all the things I could do to them_.

“You seem to think it was a fine decision to leave him alone- well, you did, before your teacher made you doubt yourself.” Castiel gave him a soft smile. “And, if it’s any consolation, I was home a lot by myself when I was thirteen, and I did just fine.”

“Yeah that- that does make me feel better. Thank you, Cas.” Dean said sincerely, and returned Castiel’s smile.

“Do you wear glasses?” Castiel asked curiously as he folded the bag into neat quarters and put it in the bin near the counter.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean felt his face heat up, though he didn’t know why. Wearing glasses was nothing to be embarrassed about. "Just to read though,” He added. “I mean, I can read without them, but it’s more difficult.” He lifted a hand up in front of his eyes and moved it closer and further away while staring at his palm. “I have trouble focussing on things up close, you know?”

“Right,” Castiel said, amusement thickening his tone. Dean widened his eyes when he realised what he was doing. God, he was such a nerd. He brought his hand close to his face again and slapped it over his eyes.

“I’m so lame,” He groaned, cheeks heating even further with a deepening blush. He heard Castiel give a quiet chuckle.

“Yeah, kinda,” Castiel agreed, and Dean peeked through his fingers to see Castiel smiling affectionately at him.

Over the next hour, Castiel taught Dean how to use the _dish sanitiser_ \- it was totally a dishwasher, but Castiel said if Dean put any dirty dishes in there no one would never find his body- and how to serve out the basic foods. Red tongs were for the gluten-free products, whilst black tongs were used to serve everything else. Dean also took some orders on the register, Castiel watching over his shoulder, pressing long fingers against his back, his bicep and, once, his waist, whenever he forgot to ask the customers if their order was to have there or if they were taking it away.

At 5.30, Gabriel emerged, hair flattened on one side of his head, nodded to where Dean and Castiel were standing by the register, then turned and walked back into the back room.

“Now he’ll probably do bookwork,” Castiel told Dean with a satisfied tone.

“Wouldn’t it be easier for him to do the work before he took a nap?” Dean asked.

“Gabriel works very long days,” Castiel looked fondly at the door to the back room. “He’s up at 4.30 to get everything ready for the 7am start- he bakes everything he needs to fresh, you see.” He turned to Dean and the fond look didn’t leave his face. “I feel he deserves a nap at least once a day.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Dean conceded. His respect for his manager rose, even though the guy was still a dick. Speaking of Gabriel, though, brought a memory to the forefront of Dean’s mind. “So does he always text people like what he did the other night?” He asked Castiel, who snorted and shook his head.

“Only on special occasions. And then, only if he likes you.” He got in reply.

“Them’s the breaks for being this awesome, I guess,” Dean pretended to sigh, giving Castiel a mournful look and shrugging.

“Get back to work, Winchester,” Castiel said in response, voice thick with amusement.

“Okie dokie, Cas,” Dean grinned at him and swiped a yellow cloth from the bench before walking out the the dining area, casting a smirk back over his shoulder to Castiel as he did so.

* * *

The next time Gabriel emerged, it was 7.25 and the sky was dark, the streetlights outside the café were on and flickering a ghostly white light across the road. They had seven customers; a couple sharing a slice of raspberry cheesecake and a family of five, the parents sipping triple-shot cappuccinos in their seats whilst the triplets ran around the table, stopping occasionally to take gulps of their hot chocolates.

Dean was tired. How the hell Gabriel did this every day, he didn’t know. Castiel did this three and a half days a week, he found out after he’d asked. Castiel worked full days on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. He also worked Wednesday afternoons. On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday, Castiel had college classes to go to, though he got off early enough on Wednesday that he could work from 3 till 8. Dean smiled to himself. He was also working on Wednesday and Friday as well as Saturday. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be crushing on Castiel any more, but, well, happy accidents.

“Cassie,” Gabriel tucked his chin over Castiel’s shoulder and whined. “Can we kick these people out yet?”

Castiel frowned sideways at him. “No,” He answered shortly. “Four more minutes,”

“So you guys seriously just tell them to leave?” Dean asked. He’d been wondering what they would do if any customers overstayed their welcome come closing time.

“Sometimes,” Gabriel said from Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel was still frowning at him, but Gabriel was just ignoring him. “We generally let them stay till around 7.40, but we pack up around them and throw them meaningful looks and such so they feel compelled to leave pretty soon,”

“So you… passively kick them out?” Dean raised an eyebrow.

Gabriel thought for a moment. “Yeah pretty much,” He nodded, though he was still on Castiel’s shoulder, so it succeeded in wiggling Castiel’s body around too. Castiel huffed in surprised annoyance before shrugging Gabriel off and frowning at him. Again.

The couple left soon after the conversation, but the family remained when the clock ticked over to 7.30.

“Observe, Deano,” Gabriel, raised his eyebrows at Dean and grabbed two yellow cloths (one for chairs, the other for tables- Castiel had told Dean that when he sent him out to clean the tables and chairs for the first time earlier that shift) before moving out to the dining area and beginning to clean. After wiping the first table and chair set, he flipped the chairs over so the seat was resting on the table and it was clearly visible he was closing up for the night.

The family got the idea by about the third table, and Gabriel waved them off with some happy goodbyes. As soon as they left he abandoned the dining room and walked back over to where Dean and Castiel had been watching him. He pressed the two cloths he had into Dean’s chest.

“You can do the rest,” He smiled sweetly at Dean, who curled his lip in reply and took the cloths from Gabriel begrudgingly, before slouching out to finish the job. He was genuinely surprised at himself. He was already so comfortable in his new job that he was making faces at his boss and complaining about the work he was given. And they were already so comfortable with him that they were putting up with his shit with a laugh and a smile.

Gabriel set up the speakers again while they cleaned, though this time Castiel got to plug his music in. “Thank God,” He called out as he saw Castiel plug in his iPod. “Please tell me you don’t listen to the Bee Gees too, do you, Cas?”

Castiel smiled down at his iPod before selecting a song. “No,” He answered, and, from the speakers, what Dean was pretty sure was a harp started playing. _A harp_. What the fuck was wrong with this family’s taste in music?

“ _A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes…_ ”

The woman singing, though not unpleasant to listen to, sounded a little like a chorus of nuns singing a hymn, though Dean had no idea how that worked.

“Is Florence and The Machine okay with you, Dean?” Castiel asked from the counter and Dean resumed cleaning tables and chairs.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean rolled his eyes at the sound of his lying voice. He sucked. “I’ve never heard her- them-” Wait, was Florence and Whatever a band or one person? Dean was fucked over by this song already. “- her, before.” He finished, wincing at the table he was cleaning (in a perfect figure-eight motion).

“Oh,” He heard Castiel say, and Gabriel cackled from somewhere a little to the left of where Castiel’s voice was coming from. “Well, I like them. And they’re nothing like the Bee Gees,” He tacked onto the end, sounding proud of himself. Dean snorted.

Once he’d finished all the tables, he wandered back behind the counter and saw Castiel taking food out of the fridge. “Out of date?” He asked, gesturing to the food sitting on the bench.

“It’s finished it’s shelf-life, but I don’t know the difference, really.” Castiel poked at a macaron with his finger. “They don’t taste stale or anything. But regulations are regulations,” He shrugged.

Dean swept the dining area next, and was surprised by the amount of debris and crumbs and waste he swept into a pile at the end. Gabriel threw a dustpan at him and he tipped it all into the nearest bin while Gabriel made up a mop bucket for him so he could do the floors once he was finished sweeping.

Castiel made him set up three wet floor signs before he mopped, (“It’s for _safety_ , Dean.” “Cas, everyone in the room knows I’m mopping. The signs are, if anything, trip hazards, making them _more_ dangerous.” “Put up the signs, Winchester.” “ _Ugh_ ,”) and once the floor was clean and glistening, he slid his way back to the counter only to be told by the brothers to turn around and change the bins while they counted the register.

“Am I done yet?” Dean whined once all the bins were freshly changed and the dining area was spotless. He slumped over the front counter and cast pleading eyes up to Castiel and Gabriel as they watched him.

“Hmm…” Gabriel scratched his chin as Castiel checked his watch. They were standing shoulder-to-shoulder behind the counter, similar expressions of amusement on their faces, and Dean could finally see the sibling resemblance, although Castiel’s smile was much more subdued than Gabriel’s giant grin.

“It _is_ 8.02,” Castiel intoned to Gabriel, tilting his head slightly to the side. Dean watched them hopefully, puffing his cheeks out a little as he held his breath. His feet hurt from standing for so long, and he really just wanted to get home and see Sam, though he’d never admit that to the kid’s face.

“Okay then,” Gabriel nodded. “I guess you can go.” Dean’s eyes lit up. “But first-” Dean moaned pitifully. “-Here,” Gabriel slid two packets of the leftover food to him. Curious, Dean opened the bags to find two ham and cheese croissants in one, and a slice of the jaffa cake he so coveted in the other.

Dean let out a satisfied groan, shutting his eyes and thumping his head down on the counter for a second, before standing straight and stretching, giving a contented mumble as the bones in his shoulder popped and cracked as he lifted his arms above his head.

Letting his arms drop to his side, he walked through the door to the back room to get his things whilst tearing at the stings of his apron and lifting it over his head to take it off. He emerged less than a minute later with his jacket on top of his polo shirt, bag bulging with the shirt he wore to school as well as his apron. He rummaged around the front pocket of his bag for his headphones whilst checking his phone quickly for messages.

He had two messages from Garth- one asking him how his night was and, if possible, could he please have some help on the physics questions, the second a flutter of embarrassment and apologies as he remembered that Dean was at work and hoped receiving a text didn’t get him into trouble-, one from Benny reminding him to bring Antony and Cleopatra to school tomorrow because he had “permanently misplaced” his, and a picture from Sam which turned out to be a selfie of his little brother standing at the stove with a mock-horrified expression on his face as pasta boiled in the background. There was no caption.

Shaking his head, Dean finally managed to retrieve his headphones from his bag and swung it over his shoulders.

“Thanks for the food. See you on Wednesday, fellas,” Dean saluted the two brothers who were conspiring quietly behind the counter, heads ducked together. At his voice, they looked up, Castiel’s face a bright red, eyes wide, and Gabriel was grinning so hard Dean was surprised his face didn’t split in half.

“Uh…” He was confused.

“Don’t worry,” Gabriel waved him off, laughter coating his words. “You can go, Deano, we’ll see you Wednesday. _Right, Ca-as_?” Gabriel draw Castiel’s nickname out, hissing the ‘s’ though still managing to sound teasing. The glare Castiel gave him made Dean scared for his life but also turned him on a little. That was the final nail in the coffin. Dean officially had mental problems.

“Right,” Castiel gritted out. Turning to Dean, he gave him a grimace which might have been meant as a smile. “See you on Wednesday, Dean,”

“Bye,” Dean said, still confused, but mentally shrugged it off. Brothers teased each other, he knew, and Gabriel was a prick. It didn’t take much to draw to the conclusion that Gabriel was dickishly teasing Castiel about something or other.

The air outside had a bite to it, and Dean tucked one of his hands under his armpit before looking both ways and crossing the street. He stopped on the footpath across the road to _Slice of Heaven_ and thumbed through his iPod with the hand that was still free, looking for a song to play for the walk home when he heard a quiet, “Dean?”

“Yo,” He said, looking up and meeting Castiel’s gaze with a smile. Under the streetlight, Castiel’s skin was as pale as moonlight, and his hair was black as pitch. Castiel had discarded his apron and donned the same trenchcoat from Saturday, the material swamping his narrow shoulders. “Gotta get you a bell or somethin’, Cas, you’re real quiet.”

“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel asked, dismissing his comment and tilting his head slightly to the side again, as if the concept of walking was foreign to him. His cheeks weren’t red with embarrassment anymore, and due to the angle of the light above them, his eyelashes were casting fanned shadows across his cheekbones.

“Uh,” Dean didn’t know how to answer. Was he doing something wrong? “Going home?”

“Are you walking?” Castiel took the tiniest step closer, as if to stop Dean. “By yourself?”

“I was going to,” Dean’s tone was uncertain. “It’s not far.”

“But it’s dark out,”

“Evidently,” Dean smiled and looked up, gazing at a patch of sky that clouds weren’t hiding, watching the stars glimmer mutely in the light of the moon. “Seriously, Cas, I can do this.”

“Do you want a ride?” The question was quiet, uncertain, like Castiel had never offered anyone a lift home before.

If it was anyone else but Castiel, Dean would have given the dirty answer. He would’ve dropped it as a half-joke, delivered it with a filthy smile and heavy-lidded eyes, rumbled “I’d love a ride,” into the night air with the obvious meaning that it was not a ride in the car he was talking about. But he had to see this guy after today and Sam would _not_ be happy if he fucked the guy with the ridiculous name that he worked with, so, biting his tongue, Dean opted for a gentle smile.

“Thanks Cas, but I’ll pass.” He saw Castiel open his mouth, whether to press his case or downright protest to poor, unprotected Dean walking home alone at night, but cut across him. “I don’t think I can stand another minute of Gabriel, anyway.” He joked. He took a step down the road and waved the hand still clutching his iPod. “I’ll see you, Cas.”

“At least-” Castiel called out after him as he turned away. He stopped to show he was listening. “Can you at least text me when you get home?” When Dean looked at him, Castiel was staring at the pavement, blushing right up to his ears, hands balled into fists by his sides. Dean’s chest felt uncomfortable tight.

“You worry too much,” He said quietly. Castiel didn’t move, but Dean saw his fingers flex once. “Yeah, Cas, I’ll text you,”

“Okay Dean,” Castiel didn’t even look at him as he turned back to the store. “Have a safe walk.”

Dean turned, too, and began walking, shoving his earbuds in and pressing play on a random song. He put his iPod in his pocket and shoved his other hand under his arm, grinning into the night, watching the stars as he set a quick pace towards home, the only sound in his ears the blaring of Blue Öyster Cult and the rush of his own blood.

* * *

“Did you get rejected?” Gabriel asked in sympathy, the tone totally juxtaposed to the grin on his face when Castiel walked back through _Slice of Heaven_ ’s door alone. Castiel shot him a glare.

“Only because he said he couldn’t stand even the thought of spending another minute in your presence,” He griped back, and Gabriel let it go right over his head, grin not wavering an inch.

“Don’t worry, little brother, he was totally checking out your ass at one stage,” Gabriel beamed at him. “You’re in.” Gabriel thought for a moment. “Or he’s in. I really don’t know how you like to-”

“I don’t think that’s the reaction you are supposed to have to people checking out your younger sibling,” Castiel grumbled, cutting Gabriel off, grabbing his own bag from where he had left it on the counter before running out after Dean.

“Oh, sorry. Here,” Gabriel put on a deep voice that was an eerie echo of Michael. “ _How_ dare _he look at you like that? I’m gonna rough him up good, don’t you worry your innocent little head, baby Cassie_.” He couldn’t keep his composure and ended up bursting out in laughter.

Castiel had to hand it to him. “That was really creepy,” He said. “Did you get that good from all those times you used to mimic Michael when we were younger?”

“Yep,” Gabriel smiled at the memory. “That’s how I got so many days off school. I’d call up, pretend to be Mike and tell them poor little baby brother Gabriel was sick and they’d totally fall for it. Every time.”

“How come I didn’t know about this?” Castiel asked, fishing around his bag’s front pocket for his keys. Gabriel disappeared into the back room for a second before reemerging with the stained lanyard that held the keys to the café and a blue, white and yellow letterman jacket thrown over his shoulders.

“Because you were a tattle-tale when we were in school, and you would have totally told big brother Michael that Gabriel was being a bad boy.” He answered snootily, switching off the lights and chuckling at Castiel’s affronted expression. “The truth is hard, I know, Cassie,” He added mournfully, and Castiel shoved him as they walked out of the shop.

“You driving?” Gabriel asked as he locked the door.

“Of course,” Castiel answered. “I don’t trust you to drive at night anymore, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel finished locking up and together they walked down the street to Castiel’s car. “I wish you’d let that go soon.”

“Never,”

About halfway home, Castiel’s phone lit up where it had been resting on the dashboard. “Ooh, someone’s popular,” Gabriel snatched the phone as soon it had finished vibrating, like Castiel had had the intention of checking the text he had received while he was driving.

“It’s _Dean_ ,” Gabriel sounded like he had just won the lottery. “What’s your code?” He punched in a random four digits into the lock screen, and the phone buzzed, telling him he had put in the wrong combination.

“No, Gabriel,” Castiel sighed, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him.

“ _Please_ ,” Gabriel whined from the passenger seat, trying another combination only to get it wrong.

“No,” Castiel turned a corner and remained stony-faced.

The mantra of _please_ s that streamed out of Gabriel’s mouth almost made him want to intentionally crash the car. But Castiel sat in silence until they pulled up at their house (Michael had left the porch light on for them) and then promptly snatched his phone from Gabriel’s hands as soon as he turned the ignition off.

“ _Hey_!” Gabriel whined.

“You act like this isn’t my phone,” Castiel rolled his eyes and got out of the car. He stood against the door and found that Gabriel had locked him out of his phone for fifteen minutes trying to get his lock code. “Are you serious, Gabriel?”

His brother smiled at him sweetly and grabbed his bag before running inside. Castiel glared after him, getting his own bag slowly and locking his car, flicking the switch to turn the porch lights off when he got inside the door.

Twenty minutes later, Castiel emerged from the shower and climbed into a soft grey shirt and thin cotton pyjama pants. He sat on his bed and picked up his phone gently, finally unlocking it and opening the text from Dean in the privacy of his own bedroom.

 

**Home now, safe and sound. You have a good night, Cas**

 

He felt his lips twitch into a smile. He felt silly, smiling over nothing, over black words inside a grey speech bubble on his phone. But still, Dean didn’t have to wish him a good night.

 

**That’s good to hear. Pleasant dreams, Dean.**

 

He typed a quick reply, scanned it once for a spell check, and sent it off. Trying not to read too far into things was hard. He was studying linguistics. He read between the lines every day for his classes. But this- he wasn’t going to ruin this by making assumptions, no matter what Gabriel said.

So he was going to restrict himself to limits. Only small touches- Dean’s shoulder, his arm, handling his waist lightly only when he had to scoot past him and didn’t want to vocally announce to Dean that he was there. Small touches, and drinking in the sight of him- Dean was too beautiful not to love the look of. Golden skin, a galaxy of freckles, eyes that were like sunlight on evergreen leaves in the middle of summer. When Dean had stretched at the end of his shift that night, Castiel though he was going to get caught, ogling so obviously as he had when Dean had flexed his shoulders and back, but luckily- or unluckily?- only Gabriel had seen, which, consequently, had unleashed a tidal wave of teasing onto him, but Dean didn’t find out, so he was safe. Castiel also liked that Dean was only a little bit taller than him so that he had to tilt his head to look at him, but not too much that he was straining the muscles. Dean’s hair intrigued him- Castiel didn’t want to say was brown but at the same time, it clearly wasn’t blonde.

In a clumsy conclusion, Castiel was studying the English language, but he still could find no words to describe Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, just want you guys to know a few things;  
> I work at McDonald's- all my cafe experience comes from McCafe. I'm trying my best, but obviously there are going to be some inaccuracies.  
> Also, the song Cas puts on is _Cosmic Love_ by Florence + The Machine. I feel like ol' Florence would be a band Cas would listen too.
> 
> Thanks all. I hope you enjoyed :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. Just gonna apologise for this being soooo late. I do have an excuse about uni exams and work and blah blah but it really just boils down to me being really lazy so, again, I'm sorry.
> 
> Also, I know this is kind of a filler chapter, but I swear there's good stuff coming up.
> 
> Thanks guys xx

The next two months were one of the most content periods of Dean’s life. He had settled in at school quite well, averaging solid grades that kept the teachers off his back, even excelling at autoshop and getting an A- on the assignment they handed in. That earned him a grunt of approval from Bobby when he got the paper back, and Benny had clapped him on the back in congratulations, showing him his corresponding A with a lopsided grin.

The Wednesday of the third week of Dean starting school, he let slip to Garth and Bess that his dad was only home on the weekends.

“You mean,” Bess had looked at him with wide eyes while Dean had shovelled cold, leftover pasta into his mouth. He saw Bela Talbot looking at him with disgust from her table while Charlie Bradbury apparently laughed with abandon at the sight of him eating with so much gusto. “It’s just you and your little brother every week? For five whole days? Alone?”

Dean made a sound that was vaguely agreeable and tried to swallow his massive mouthful. He hadn’t had a chance to eat breakfast that morning because Sam had been running around the house like a headless chicken looking for an assignment he’d “ _literally been working on_ all _last night, Dean!_ ” and had printed and now could not find.

They had found it in his bag after ten minutes of frantic searching. Dean had smacked Sam up the side of his head then basically force-fed him the toast he had been planning on eating himself.

They had had to run to school, arriving three minutes late and Sam only had time for a hasty “ _see you after work_!” before he had sprinted to class. Dean had taken a moment to catch his breath before turning and half-walking/half-jogging to the high school, and by the time he had gotten to his trig class, Ms Barnes was at the whiteboard, coffee in one hand, marker in the other, and gave him a half-hearted stink-eye as he took his seat next to a giggling Charlie.

He had been drawing pictures of burgers on his physics book by the time lunch had finally rolled around, his stomach snarling, and he’d raced to the cafeteria with Garth on his heels and practically tore open the container of last night’s cold spaghetti and began wolfing it down.

Bess had arrived a minute or two later, kissing Garth hello and eyeing Dean with amusement as he smiled in greeting with cheeks full of pasta. “Your pop must cook a good sauce. You look like you’re enjoying that.” Bess had said.

Dean had swallowed. “Nah, dad can’t make pasta sauce for shit. He still thinks the main ingredient is tomato sauce.” Twirling his fork, he readied another mouthful. “Plus, he’s only home on the weekends, so I do most of the cooking.” He had added absently before pushing the forkful past his lips.

That reveal came as a blessing and a curse to Dean. On the last week of November, he had gotten sick with a mild case of the flu and had been forced by his own body (what a betrayal) to remain in bed for a whole day. Sam had left a water bottle on his bedside table and gone off to school with a pinched, worried expression, promising to be back as soon as school finished. Garth had texted him around lunch ( **Hey Dean! Just checking if you’re okay, we’re missing you here at school today :)** ) which had woken Dean up from a nap when his phone had vibrated against the cheap wood of his bedside table. Dean had made the mistake of trying to reply through the fog of his illness- and- sleep- addled brain and responded clumsily with **hey garth im sikc so culdnt come t schol tody missn yu to bud** before tucking his face back into the pillow and snoring it up.

He had been roused again a little later by a gleeful remark probably aimed to be quiet but was too loud to be even called a whisper. “He looks like a big ol’ teddy bear, don’t he?”

Lifting his head up from the pillow, he had glared at Garth and Bess, who were crowding his doorway. “Whatchu doin’ here?” His voice had been sleep-rough and he’d winced at the heavy feeling of phlegm in his chest.

“Oh!” Bess had beamed at him when she realised he was awake. “Sam let us in!” She paused. “You have a lovely home, Dean,” Was added almost absently, like there had been no parent to say it too so she had said it to the next best thing.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Dean had dropped his head back onto his pillow and snuffled. He heard them giggle quietly about his bed hair for a moment, but his head felt like it was full of cotton.

“We brought you some soup for dinner,” Bess advanced into his room and he heard her unscrew the cap from the water bottle beside his bed.

“You wha?” He rolled over so he could sit up, and his head was swimming.

“You haven’t drunk any of this.” Bess frowned at him, and he shuffled among the thin blankets, feeling almost ashamed by her gaze. She had offered him the water and he accepted it meekly. He saw Garth walk back out of the doorway, presumably to converse with Sam somewhere else in the house. “And I said we brought you some soup for dinner! You said you usually cook your meals and there was that one anecdote of Sam being really bad at cooking, so we just…” Bess took the bottle back from him after he’d drank all he could and screwed the cap back on. “Of course, we brought enough for Sam too, but, I mean, I made it on the weekend so it’s a little old, but it’s still good…” She ducked her head, her wavy hair falling about her face, the silver necklace she always wore freeing itself from the neckline of her sweater and swinging forwards. “This is weird, isn’t it.”

“Nrgh,” Dean tried to make a disagreeing sound, but his throat was stuck despite the water and all that came out was a burring noise. He gave a phlegmy cough and tried again. “No,” He rumbled. “Thank you,” He took a deep breath through his nose (it sounded disgusting and snorty) and closed his eyes and his temples throbbed.

“You’re very welcome Dean,” He could almost hear Bess smiling from ear to ear. “You just lay back now, and me and Garth will go. I’m sure Sam out there can manage heating up soup for you two.”

Not even attempting to make an agreeable sound, Dean had just nodded and lay back down. He heard Bess call Garth in and then both said goodbye heartily from his doorway (he tried to wave a hand at them in response but his limbs were really heavy) and they had left. Sam poked him awake a little while later and made him come out to the kitchen table for the soup, which he’d eaten through the buzz of Sam chatting about his day, and when he’d woken up the next morning he wasn’t as good as new, but he was well enough to go to school.

“You guys didn’t have to do that,” Was the first thing he’d told Garth and Bess the next day.

“Well, technically, I didn’t do anything!” Garth had beamed at him. “I just drove the car!”

“And it was really no trouble, Dean,” Bess had told him sympathetically. “We’re just glad you’re feeling better.”

“Well,” Dean had shrugged and sniffed again. If Bela was around, she’d be disgusted and it would make his day. He was smiling just thinking about it. He should go find Bela. “The soup was really nice.”

Their smiling was ridiculous, if a little infectious.

* * *

For those two months, John had made it home every weekend. Most of the time, he got home around midday on a Saturday, though there was one notable occasion where the Impala was in the driveway when Sam and Dean got home from school on a particular Friday afternoon. They hadn’t asked for an explanation- it was the second of November, their dad always got the day off and always spent the day in Lawrence. That night they had ordered pizza and sat on the ugly couch in front of the TV watching _Jaws 2_ , John and Sam side by side and pointing out the flaws in the outdated thriller while Dean had sat on the ground between them, his back resting against the bottom of the couch as he just laughed as Eddie was devoured by the fake-as shark. John didn’t send them to bed, but he did crack open a bottle of Jack around nine and Sam had said goodnight shortly after, tucking _The Goblet of Fire_ under his arm. Dean stayed up, doing homework at the kitchen table while John had sat still on the couch, downing glass after glass of whiskey, and finally he had to help his dad to bed at 3am, telling him “It’s okay, dad, it’s okay.” as his father leant heavily on his shoulder and stumbled to his room, apologising endlessly, for what, Dean didn’t know. After he’d set John in, he tip-toed barefoot outside to the bin to throw out the empty bottle of Jack before Sam found it the next morning- they’d made that mistake before. November the second was the only day John allowed himself to drink that much at home. While Dean understood and Sam tolerated it, there was always a layer of frostiness between Sam and John for the remainder of the weekend. Dean had just tried to keep the peace, though it had been nice to escape the pursed lips and frowns when he worked on Saturday.

But the boys weren’t always so lucky to have John come home so soon. Dean worked every Saturday, so he usually trudged home in the dark to find the Impala gleaming in the light of the streetlights where she sat proudly in the driveway and Sam and John nattering around the kitchen table. A few times, he had gotten home and the driveway had been empty, and he had walked in to Sam sitting at the pockmarked kitchen table alone, a book propped up against a glass of juice or the salt and pepper shakers, toes brushing the linoleum of the kitchen floor as he swung his feet and waited for someone to come home. On those occasions, Dean had fluffed his younger brother’s hair and pushed whatever ‘outdated’ delicacy Castiel and Gabriel had forced upon him that night under Sam’s nose.

On those nights, Dean and Sam would finish off the remainder of their homework together and then watch a movie or play cards while they waited for the lights of the Impala to shine through the thin curtains in the living room. One time they even coerced John into playing a round of Go Fish when he arrived home, which left Sam smiling with contentment when he went to bed and John giving Dean an affectionate pat on the head as he said goodnight. On those nights, the better nights, Dean fell asleep without the usual bubble of anxiety in his chest, good feelings swamping the worry and swirling like sunshine and warmth under his skin.

Only once so far had John failed to return to his boys on a Saturday. It was nine at night, and Sam had been absolutely annihilating Dean at cards when Dean’s cell phone had rung. Sam had slapped a card down but paused because he was a kiss-ass who liked everyone to “play fair” and didn’t take advantage of Dean’s distraction to wipe him out altogether. Seeing the caller I.D. was _Dad_ , Dean answered straight away, standing up out of his chair and walking into the living room.

“ _Dean, son..._ ” John had sounded sincerely apologetic when he told Dean he wouldn’t make it home that night. Dean had answered with a short agreement, trying to keep the disappointment out of his tone, though his words were clipped and he knew John must be picking up on some of it. He told John he understood when his father had told him under any other circumstances he would have come home but he was so close to closing this case. Dean had sighed internally, rolling his lips and looking at the roof. He had understood, he did, but they had had a deal- John could go off during the weeks, leaving his sons at home to look after themselves, but he had _promised_ to come home on the weekends. It was hardly enough to see him only two days a week- they missed him. But, evidently, he did not miss them as much.

“So you’re not going to be home at all?” Dean had used both his hands to press his phone to his ear. He tried to keep his voice down, but he still heard the crappy chair legs squeak against the linoleum as apparently Sam crept closer to the door to eavesdrop.

“ _I’ll- I’ll try Dean…_ ” It was the first time in a long while Dean had heard John falter in his speech. He guessed it was because it was the first time in a long while that John had heard Dean speak directly to him with anger in his tone.

“I guess that’s all we can ask, then,” Dean bit out, swapping both his hands for his cheek and shoulder and pinching his lower lip between the thumb and pointer finger of his right hand as disappointment and anger pumped through him. He turned back to face the door to the kitchen and saw Sam peering at him around the door frame. His small face had been pinched with worry, so Dean had let go of his lip and made a stupid face at his brother which resulted in Sam’s huffed laugh, but that was all Dean could spare as he turned his attention back to the phone and John talking about ‘ _the good of the case_ ’ or something.

He had said goodbye shortly afterwards and joined Sam back at the table. Sam had waited expectantly, feet swinging and the tips of his sock-covered toes skidding across the floor as Dean had fished for words to explain why John wasn’t coming home. He opened his mouth but nothing was ready on his tongue, so he clamped his teeth shut and pinched his lower lip again.

“You look angry,” Sam had reported. Dean raised his eyebrows in response, but he assumed it was an accurate enough observation. He _was_ angry.

“Dad’s not coming home tonight,” Dean lowered his head and watched his hands intently as he picked at a splinter in the table, not wanting to see the light in Sam’s eyes dim.

“Oh,” Was what he heard. The tiny scuffing sounds ceased as Sam stopped swinging his feet and tucked them politely under his chair. “Will he come home at all?”

It was difficult to answer. “I- _He_ doesn’t know, Sam.” It was hard to say those words, they were sticky in his throat as he forced them out. He glanced up and saw that Sam was getting two spots of colour high on his cheeks, a tell-tale sign since birth that he was getting upset. “He said he’d try.” The words had tumbled out, hasty and falling over one another as Dean tried to amend what he had said that had caused his brother the distress. Logically, he knew it wasn’t his fault; Sam was upset because of something John had done, but Dean had still been the one to deliver the news and it was Dean’s kneejerk reaction to try and get Sam to feel better.

“Right.” Sam’s voice was almost carefully level as he stood out of his chair. “It’s okay, though.” Dean watched as he went to the counter and put John’s dinner they had been saving for him in the fridge. He then peered around the kitchen and, realising there was nothing else to do, his hazel eyes flitted to Dean and then away, like maybe if he didn’t look at him Dean wouldn’t notice how agitated this was making him.

“Sam-” Dean had started, rising from his chair, too, but Sam just held out a hand.

“Dean, don’t.” He lips were a thin line. “I’m being- I’ll just-” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I’ll get over it. I’m going to bed.”

Dean had caught his brother’s elbow before he could brush past him. “I was just gonna say that you should text Jo and find out if The Roadhouse does Sunday breakfast.”

Sam’s head snapped up to look at him so fast Dean almost winced in sympathy. It was no secret to Dean or John that Sam loved going out to any restaurant that didn’t deep fry everything for a bought breakfast. They didn’t know what it was, but Sam had always been the odd one- preferring salad and vegetables where Dean and John liked meat and carbs. But breakfast was always expensive, so when they were on the road in the early morning, Sam would always watch the cafés being set up for the breakfast rush as they sped through towns and Dean would be forced to see his brother’s disappointment as the Impala turned into a McDonald’s or Burger King and they got wilted pancakes or a shitty excuse for sausage mince instead of crisp slices of sourdough and thick cut bacon.

“But-” Sam’s eyes were wide, and Dean was proud to note the hope had flooded back into them.

“But nothing. My treat, Squirt.” Dean had winked and ruffled his hair. Sam had brushed him off absently as he was already reaching for his phone. Sure, it would take a bite out of Dean’s pocket, but wasn’t this what he was saving up for? To spoil Sam?

Sam wondered back into the kitchen about half an hour later, staring perplexedly at his phone like it was about to get up and do a tap dance in the palm of his hand. Dean, who had been in the middle of sending a text message of his own, cocked an eyebrow.

“So what’s the verdict, Champ?” Dean’s voice caused Sam to wrinkle his nose slightly and look up from the screen.

“Jo says The Roadhouse isn’t open for Sunday breakfast.” Sam replied, finally lifting his eyes from his screen. Dean was puzzled, though not at the fact that The Roadhouse was closed- it was a slim chance they did something as cutesy as breakfast at that rough and tumble joint- but at Sam’s expression. He looked almost… nervous, or anxious, like someone offered him a bouquet of roses and he wasn’t sure if they were going to explode if he took them.

“Well, that’s okay, dude, we can go…” He trailed off when Sam had opened his mouth again.

“But Jo said that her mum says we can come over for breakfast?” Sam ended his sentence on a lilt, like he was asking a question, and Dean was taken aback. He understood Sam’s expression now- he was pretty sure he had the same one on his face.

“Uh,” Dean had sat back in his chair and pursed his lips in contemplation. He thought about it and he was pretty sure he’d never in his life gotten an invitation to go over to someone’s house for breakfast before. Sure, there was that one time Garth had come in to school carrying a container of pancakes because his mom had made too many and shared them with whomever had wanted some (Dean had had five and then gotten the recipe off Garth so he could make them for Sam because hot damn were they some delicious pancakes), but no one had ever actually invited them around to cook them a morning meal.

But if anyone were to ask, it would be Ellen Harvelle. Pretty much every weekend John had suggested they go to The Roadhouse to eat a meal, and, quickly enough, Ellen knew Dean’s order by heart (Sam always tried new things so she couldn’t predict his order and John alternated between burgers and steak). Sam and Dean had even gone to The Roadhouse a couple of weeknights because Dean had forgotten to get something out that morning to defrost or had had a bad day at school and didn’t want to cook. It was always too late to go in after work and Sam liked to eat around 6.30 every night anyway, so they couldn’t go out and get food (that doesn’t include the time the boys ordered pizza at 3am one Friday night from a twenty-four hour pizza shop because they were having a Star Wars marathon).

“As long as I don’t see Mr Singer in his pyjamas, sure, I’m game,” Dean had shrugged. Free food was free food, and, though he’d never admit it to anyone, Ellen always showered them in a fraction of the maternal affection Dean had been craving since he was four.

So the next morning they had woken up at 6.30 to be presentable to arrive at the Harvelle’s by 8 (Dean had sneaked out to the lounge room while Sam was still groaning and ‘getting up’ and peeked out the window, but the driveway was still empty- and no Impala meant no John). They both showered (they had to wait ages for Sam’s hair to dry before they could leave- Dean called him a girl at least five times, Sam stopped arguing at the third) and dressed in their nicer jeans and the shirts with no rips or stains.

“Does this look okay?” Sam punctuated his question with a large yawn as he did a half-hearted twirl for Dean. Dean hummed in the affirmative.

“Why? Tryin’ to impress someone?” Dean had waggled his eyebrows as Sam scowled.

“No,” Sam sneered. “But if we show up in sloppy clothes Ellen will probably send us home to change.”

Dean blinked. “Oh jeez, you’re right.” He spun on the spot for Sam. “Am I okay?”

Sam shrugged. “Better than usual, but it’s too bad y’can’t fix your face.” Which had only made Dean snort.

“That was a horrible insult, Sammy.”

The walk to The Roadhouse had been cold even though the early November sun was shining through the thin layer of wintery cloud. Dean and Sam had walked at a brisk pace, arms identically shoved into their armpits, and though the walk wasn’t far (The Roadhouse was closer to the Winchester’s than _Slice of Heaven_ was), Sam’s teeth were chattering and Dean’s cheeks were red with cold when Jo let them in the door.

The Harvelle-Singer house was behind The Roadhouse restaurant, connected to the establishment by the staff room, which mostly consisted of a couch that rivalled the Winchester’s own in ugliness and a radio (Jo said the only person who really spent time in there was Bobby when he needed to correct papers while staying close to the bar to help out if Ellen needed).

“Mo- _om_ ,” Jo had called out as the boys took off their boots inside the door, dragging out the middle of the word in that universal whinging way only kids could do when speaking to a parent. “Dean and Sam are here!” The boys basked in the warmth of the house as Jo rolled her eyes to them at Ellen’s response (“No shouting in the house, Joanna Beth!”).

Jo had been dressed in a flannel shirt almost three times too big for her slight frame, grey sweatpants and big fluffy slippers which both the boys raised their eyebrows at. She had led the boys down the short hall and into the brightly lit kitchen-slash-dining area where Ellen was leaning against the counter in her usual jeans and plaid, and Bobby was sitting at the large dining table, leafing through the newspaper with one hand and sipping a coffee with the other.

Breakfast was more or less what Dean had been expecting. Ellen had bitched about John and how little effort he needed to put in to return home, but as soon as Sam or Dean agreed with something she’d said, she’d point a fork or a piece of toast or a finger at them and tell them not to disrespect their daddy. Jo had spent the whole time ribbing Dean, who gave as good as he got until Ellen told them both to stop talking with their mouths full and they stayed in shamed silence for a minute, eating the giant breakfast Ellen had served up without even asking what they liked or wanted (Dean and Sam liked it all anyway) with heated cheeks before Jo leant towards Dean slightly and murmured “You need a bib to eat, you grub” and they were off again. Bobby had spent the time quietly reading the paper and avoiding looking at Dean, who did the same thing- seeing a teacher at his work was one thing, but being at his house at 8.30 in the morning was on a completely different level. Sam had basically kissed ass, telling Ellen how delicious his breakfast was at every fucking lull in conversation while his feet swung to and fro underneath his chair, but Dean was just happy Sam was enjoying himself.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Sam had belched into his hand after they had finished saying goodbye to Ellen, Jo and Bobby, and had begun walking home. “I never want to eat again.”

Dean had groaned in agreement and patted his own gut. “I’m gonna need to start exercising again.”

Sam snorted before pulling his hands through the cuffs of his jacket to hide them from the cold. “We walk everywhere, Dean. I don’t think you’re gonna get fat,”

“Aw, thanks Sam,” Dean grinned as Sam huffed in exasperation at his brother’s expression. “I’m glad we shared this moment.”

“Look out, I might start talking about feelings next, and then where would you be?” Sam laughed, tilting his face up to the sky and watching as his laughter misted into the air and wafted after them.

“I’ll tell you where I’d be,” Dean had gone along with it, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying to stamp the cold out of his legs at the same time as they rounded the corner of their street. “I’d be…”

And there she was. Glistening in the pale winter light, looking impressive even in the middle of suburbia, dominating the driveway like a beast. Dean’s words had died in his throat and his teasing grin was replaced by an even bigger smile that was so much more real as he spotted the Impala sitting in front of their house. Sam had looked down from the sky to give Dean a puzzled glance when he stopped talking, and then he followed Dean’s gaze down the road and stopped in his tracks for a moment before breaking in to a run, his brother alongside him.

“Dad, dad!” Sam had stumbled into the kitchen, cheeks red from the cold and the short sprint to the house but grinning like a madman, his coat flapping about his thighs as he held his hands out towards his father. It had always been strange to Dean; Sam and John were always at each other’s throats, always sighing and bitching and fighting, but they also loved each other so much, Dean knew, that nothing could quell the love between the two. Dean wasn’t jealous- he and John had their own type of relationship, and there was love there. But it wasn’t the same kind of unconditional love that was between John and Sam. Dean had never heard John tell Sam that no matter what, he had to keep Dean safe, or that Dean was his number one priority. But that was okay, because it wasn’t Sam’s job to keep Dean safe. It was Dean’s job to keep Sam safe and happy and healthy, not the other way around, and John only reminded him of that because he loved Dean, too, and the key to Dean’s happiness was through Sam.

Dean entered the kitchen more slowly. Though he had run with Sam down the street, as soon as he entered the house he had started thinking about how he’d spoken to his father on the phone, the anger that had been in his voice and how abruptly he’d hung up on John, and fear had started seeping into his chest, trickling down his spine. He flexed his fingers, rolling his lips together and taking a deep breath, telling himself it would be fine, that he could take it.

But he saw immediately that there had been nothing to fear. He’d peered around the jamb of the doorway into the kitchen and saw John sitting at the table with Sam’s arms flung about his neck- “We didn’t think you were coming home dad!”, Sam had been babbling- and saw John smiling and, if only for a moment, pressing his face into Sam’s hair, arms circling his son, looking tired but content. And then his dark eyes had met Dean’s over Sam’s shoulder and his smile had grown wider and Dean knew that, for once, he’d done the right thing by sticking up for himself and bringing his father home.

* * *

“It’s too bad your café isn’t open on Sundays, Dean.” John had groaned later that day, stretching his legs out in front of him as he sat down on the couch, beer in one hand. Dean looked up from his place on the floor next to Sam where they had been reading side by side, lying on their stomachs. Sam was reading _The Order of the Phoenix_ and Dean had been leafing through the last act of _Antony and Cleopatra_ as he simultaneously texted Benny about the questions Mrs Milton had set them for homework that weekend. They were almost finished with the Shakespearian tragedy and were starting their next novel before they split for Christmas break.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, quietly penning in an answer as his eyes flickered between what he was writing and his father. “But only ‘cause you want one of my amazing coffees.”

It wasn’t until his third shift that Gabriel had finally taught Dean how to make some coffees. They had kept to the basics, just cappuccinos, lattés, and flat whites. They also went over long blacks and espresso shots, but Gabriel had waved his hand and said those two were “ _easy as pie, Deano_ ,” and hadn’t needed a demonstration.

Castiel didn’t work on Fridays, and Dean hadn’t known whether to be relieved or bitter that that was the case. He had decided on relieved shortly afterwards when he kept making mistakes even when he _wasn’t_ distracted by some weirdo in a snug shirt staring holes in the side of his head. Even Gabriel had to keep directing his hand when he made his first few coffees. Afterwards, he was still terribly slow, slopping milk all down the sides of the jugs and spilling raw coffee grinds onto the bench. He apologised to Gabriel, but the blond just laughed it off and told him there was no use crying over spilt milk, and then thought himself so hilarious that he just laughed for the rest of the night every time he looked at Dean.

“Making dad’s coffee is hardly a big feat, Dean,” Sam hadn’t even looked up from his book, continuing to avidly scan the pages.

“Yeah, and how do you know?” Dean sneered at Sam, pushing his glasses up his nose with the end of his pen whilst shoving an elbow into Sam’s hand to jiggle the book he was holding. Sam just rolled his eyes and shuffled out of Dean’s reach.

“Because I’ve _been_ to your work, Dean, and I’ve _seen_ you make coffees.” Sam didn’t even look up from the page.

It was true. Sam was now a regular customer at _Slice of Heaven_ , spending time in the booths and hanging around the counter watching Dean work the coffee machine. He was so regular, in fact, that Gabriel and Castiel now knew him by sight. He was never alone, though, and always had a friend or two in tow.

Dean already knew Sam’s friend Kevin Tran as they studied together every Thursday night- unfortunately, this also meant that Dean had come to know Linda Tran, Kevin’s strict and austere mother, when she came to pick him up. He found that she was actually quite amiable once he got over her authoritative first impression, but he was always on his toes when he greeted her at the door because he made the mistake of calling her Linda once instead of Mrs Tran like she had asked him too and, boy, did he get the biggest talking to of his _life_ afterwards.

Sam sometimes managed to wrangle Kevin away from his strict studying schedule and took him to _Slice of Heaven_ after school on a day Dean was working. Kevin had been a little awkward at first, mumbling his order to his shoes even though Dean had seen this kid do a headstand against the wall and recite the alphabet backwards just because Sam had said he couldn’t and had no idea why he was shy. But whenever he came in now, Kevin was quite happy to see Dean.

Sam also sometimes brought in Jessica Moore, the girl Dean had seen Sam trip over at school, and finally did Dean have some new teasing material on Sam because he could tell as soon as she walked in that the boy was smitten. When they had gone too their booth, Dean had leant over to Castiel and bumped him with his hip to get his attention. When Castiel had cast his blue eyes Dean’s way, Dean had nodded towards Sam and Jessica and pasted the biggest grin on his face.

“What do you think?” He’d asked, quirking an eyebrow. Castiel had looked over to the booth and back to Dean, one of his not-quite-there smiles playing around his mouth.

“I don’t think anything.” Castiel told him. “How would you feel if your brother gossiped about your love life?” Dean just snorted.

“I don’t have a love life, Cas,” Dean had turned back to the milk he was frothing and finished making the hazelnut mocha for the dark haired nurse who was waiting. Castiel didn’t say anything in response, just wandered out to the dining area to collect a few spare plates and cups, nodding to Sam and Jessica as he passed their table. Sam turned back to his slice of pumpkin loaf (of course he ate the pumpkin loaf), but Jessica looked at Dean after Castiel had passed and caught his eye. She smiled, and Dean grinned back, winking and watching as she turned back to her white hot chocolate with red cheeks, telling Sam something that made him laugh.

“Wanna know something funny that Jess said today?” Was the first think Sam asked when Dean walked into the kitchen that night. The tone had said it all, and, along with Sam’s facial expression, Dean had known it was going to be something horrific.

Sam usually left _Slice of Heaven_ around 4, thanking Gabriel and Castiel for the food whilst aloofly waving off Dean’s tips for making dinner. When Dean got home about four and a half hours later, Sam would have his food whirring in the microwave and be sitting at the table either leafing through a book or tapping away at his laptop.

Struggling with himself for a second, Dean admitted defeat, feeling the curiosity beating in the back of his throat. “I think you’re gonna tell me anyway,” He grunted, avoiding saying yes even though Sam clearly wanted him too as he walked further into the kitchen.

“Well when we were at the café she… she…” Sam had had to pause because the smile stretching across his face was restricting his speech. Dean had tutted at him and grabbed his food from the microwave when it beeped, stirring it quickly with a fork but didn’t put it back in because he was really hungry. He figured he’d make do with the lukewarm mush.

“We were… just sitting…” Sam was almost breathless with laughter, sitting at the table with his eyes squinted shut, cheeks reddening with laughter.

“Jesus H Christ, Sam,” Dean had slid into the seat opposite him and started shovelling food into his mouth, rolling his eyes at his brother as he did so.

“Okay, okay.” Sam took a breath and held it as he tried to calm himself down. “Okay.” He repeated. “Right. So we were sitting there and Cas walked past and… and Jess... she-” He took another deep breath, steadying himself. “She was like, ‘So-” He snorted once but fought bravely to finish his sentence. “ ‘So how long have Cas and your brother been dating?’” With that done he planted his forehead on the table, his arms about his head, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

Dean had chewed his food, swallowing carefully as he waited for his brother to emerge from the folds of his arms. When Sam did finally raise his head he met Dean’s disdained gaze as he chewed another mouthful, one eyebrow raised.

“Surely it’s not that funny, Sam,” Dean had said it with a full mouth just to annoy his brother.

“Oh- Oh come on, Dean,” Sam had tittered a little again, but when Dean’s expression didn’t change, his smile dimmed a little. “It’s funny!”

“Uh-huh,” Dean had shook his head and scooped up the last of his food before moving to the sink. He had heard Sam shuffle his feet behind him.

“Are you mad?” There was no laughter in Sam’s voice then. Dean had thought about it. He wasn’t mad- not even close to it. But he knew why Sam was weirded out. Sam had expected him to get angry- blushing and stuttering, spitting out words like “ _ugh_ ” and “ _Sam, God, no_!” and to flat-out deny anything and everything his younger brother had said. But he wasn’t, he wasn’t reacting at all, and it had thrown Sam off.

“No, Sam, I’m not mad,” Dean shrugged. “I just- I don’t think it would-” He froze then, afraid he’d given the game away, and pressed his lips together.

“You… don’t think it would be weird?” Dean could practically hear the cogs turning under Sam’s mop of hair, and _that’s_ when the panic set in.

“Don’t you have homework to do?” Dean had ground out, clenching the side of the sink with his fingers until his knuckles turned white.

“Dean,” Sam had sounded breathy behind him, and Dean heard him rise from the chair. “Dean, do you-”

“Sam, I swear to God, just go do some homework or something.” Dean couldn’t look at him. _Now_ his face was burning, a hot flush crawling under his skin making him jittery and skittish.

And Sam had retreated, packing up his things and leaving the kitchen on his toes, skirting around Dean like he was a frightened animal that could have lashed out at any moment.

And now there they were. Lying side by side on the floor with John relaxing on the couch beside them, nothing to do that day but homework and to bask in the company of their small family. Dean had managed to avoid any ‘ _special talks_ ’ with Sam about anything related to the café, and he counted that as a major victory, though he was kind of worried as to why Sam hadn’t cornered him yet. Was it because his brother really was clueless? Or was Sam giving him ‘ _space_ ’ or whatever he thought he needed? Or… was Sam avoiding him?

Looking over at his brother lying a metre away, he decided the latter just couldn’t be true. Sam was too much of a nice person to do that to someone, let alone his own brother. There were few truly good people in the world, and Dean was pretty sure his brother was one of them. A weight he hadn’t realised was there was released from Dean’s chest, and he returned to _Antony and Cleopatra_ with a smile.

* * *

Dean had cooked dinner that night. Usually John cooked on Sundays, mostly making meatloaf- a known Winchester staple no matter where they were. But seeing as John had only gotten home a few hours before, Dean had told him he’d cook that night, and the grateful smile he received in return was all the payment he needed.

“So, I’ll be gone by the time you boys get up tomorrow, like usual,” John had told them as they munched their way through the tacos Dean had plated up.

“It was real nice of you to come home today, dad,” Sam stopped ribbing Dean about how he had brought medium salsa instead of mild (“It’s too spicy, Dean!” “Well next time you do the shopping, Sam, now shut up and eat!”) and smiled at John.

“Oh, well,” John’s facial hair twitched in what Dean presumed was a smile as he shifted in his seat. If he wasn’t careful, his dad would have a full beard soon, which Dean thought was kinda cool but lame at the same time.

“No, I mean it dad.” Sam pressed. Dean had wrinkled his nose and scooped up some loose mincemeat with his fingers. “It was… Well, it means a lot. To both of us.”

Dean felt a foot nudge his shin under the table and had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Sucking the remnants of the meat off his fingers, he had looked at John. “Yeah dad,” He’d said truthfully, seeing Sam beam out of the corner of his eye. “Thanks.”

John actually looked touched, which was kind of weirding Dean out, so he concentrated on his taco after that, avoiding anyone’s gazes. Sam jabbered away at John about school and his plans for the week.

“What about you, Dean?” John had asked, after Sam had finally run out of things to say. “Any plans for the week?”

“Uh,” Dean coughed down a particularly sharp bit of taco and thought. “I have an assignment due for physics, but that’s pretty much it. Oh, and work.” As he said it, he couldn’t help it- his eyes darted over to Sam, who was watching him like a hawk. He flicked his eyes away almost as soon as he looked at his brother, but it was no use. Sam had noticed and, Dean prayed, please God, let him not be rehearsing a _safe space_ speech in his head.

“Right,” John nodded, popping the last bite into his mouth. After he swallowed, he collected the dishes. “Good stuff, Dean,” He said, before taking the load over to the sink, leaving Sam and Dean alone at the table together.

One glance at his brother’s opening mouth had Dean bolting. ‘ _Finishing homework_ ’ was his excuse, and he just stayed in his room till it was time for a shower and then bed. He had half-expected Sam to come and talk to him about _stuff_ but he didn’t. Dean figured he must have an angel watching over him for that much good luck, but, really, he just figured Sam didn’t want to talk about that kind of stuff with his brother. What thirteen-year-old did?

But he still went to say goodnight to Sam because Dean was totally the best brother in the world, and then he had wished his dad a safe week. John never said anything about Dean’s anger or reprimand him for it. If anything, Dean thought he _may_ have even earned a glint of respect in his father’s eyes. John had then told him he’d try to be back as early as he could that weekend, and Dean had told him that was all he could ask.

And when he woke up the next morning, the Impala was gone with John along with it, but Dean felt good. Sam was still there, still with him, and things were looking up. For the first time in a long while, Dean didn’t want things to change. He liked where he was right now, liked that Sammy was still shorter than him, liked all his friends, and (strangely enough) his schoolwork and the workload he had. And he liked Castiel. But he knew things wouldn’t- couldn’t- stay like this forever. Things were going to change.

He just hoped it was for the better.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I know, I'm a terrible person and it's been about 3 months since I've updated and that I suck. I know. And I do have excuses, I do. I'm at uni, and I just got a new job, and yadda yadda yadda. But you guys aren't here for that. I just want you all to know I'm super-duper sorry and I hope you like this chapter. After all, I wrote it for you.
> 
> xx

It was Christmas break and Dean was bored as Hell. He was lying on his back on the sofa, feet dangling over the arm as he stared up at the ceiling, one hand drumming a gratuitous beat against his stomach while the other cradled his phone against his thigh.

School had broken up on Friday, and everyone had left on high spirits. Garth and Bess were off to Wisconsin to visit some of Bess’s cousins, though they had said if Dean got sick again and his father wasn’t home that he should call them and they would come home early to help him out (even if Dean got sick he would never call them, but his chest did get a little tight when they told him that). Charlie had punched him in the shoulder and told him to enjoy his break and, if he got bored, her home was always open for a _Harry Potter_ marathon. Benny was off to Louisiana to visit family with his beautiful olive-skinned girlfriend Andrea- Dean had only learned her name a few days before break started- but he said he’d text Dean over the break because “ _Let’s face it, brother, I’m gonna need help on that English assignment_ ,” that Mrs Milton had given them with a teasing smirk on the last day of school.

Dean sighed. He didn’t even have Sam to annoy. Ever since break had started, Sam had been hanging out with Jessica Moore. Dean remembered Jessica. The girl with the blonde hair and golden skin who looked like she’d literally stepped out of an advertisement for a Californian holiday. They had been hanging out a lot, Sam and Jess, and though Dean didn’t mind and was glad Sam was friends with a girl way out of his league who may just like him back, it meant that Dean was dying of boredom on Sunday because he was by himself.

Normally, John was home on the weekends, but, seeing as it was school holidays and he was coming home for Christmas on Tuesday, he had told the boys he was going to try and get some extra work in and wouldn’t be home until Christmas Eve.

His phone buzzed against his stomach, and when he looked at the text, he found a picture of Garth and Bess rugged up with scarves and beanies, both beaming at the camera, along with the caption **Merry Christmas Eve-Eve!** Dean snorted and locked his phone again before swinging his feet off the couch and standing, stretching his arms and shaking his legs out to try and get the blood flow back through them.

Christmas Eve. That was tomorrow. Dean wrinkled his nose as he wandered into his room, though an amused smile played around the corners of his mouth too. When he had finished his shift at _Slice of Heaven_ on Saturday, Gabriel had informed him that since Dean hadn’t said anything about going away for the holidays, he was locked in to work through them, and since he had time off, he would be working longer hours. Dean had nodded, shrugging, but secretly he was pleased to have something to do rather than sit at home and pretend to do homework. And then Gabriel had thrown a Christmas hat at him and told him that if they both wear them on Monday they can gang up on Castiel and peer pressure him into wearing one too.

Dean patted the Christmas hat where it was lying on his desk and opened his laptop, which was beside it. He dragged his duvet off his bed to wrap around his shoulders as he sat on the rickety chair that went with his dingy desk and waited for the machine to boot up, tucking his hands under his thighs to warm up his fingers as he huddled under the blanket. The house had no internal heating, which was probably one of the larger reasons the Winchesters could afford it, but it never really bothered them. Plus, it kept the bills down, so Dean never complained. If he wanted to warm up quick, he either made some shit-tasting instant coffee (or tea, on rare occasions) so he could cup his hands around the mug, or gravitated to wherever Sam was to steal body heat. Sam never complained, which was nice, but in return Dean could never object when Sam sidled up to him while he was reading or doing homework on his bed because he knew Sam was just chasing warmth as well.

Ever since the night of his first shift, Castiel had always offered Dean a lift home. And Dean had always refused. Even as it got colder and colder, and the first couple of breaths he took as he walked out of the café every night hurt his lungs, Dean refused. He told himself that it was because he didn’t want to inconvenience Castiel or, Heaven forbid, lead him on, but, deep down, Dean knew he was a little embarrassed. Embarrassed because he didn’t have a car to drive himself home with, embarrassed he didn’t have anyone to pick him up from work. And a little embarrassed of the house itself.

The Winchester house was a one storey, three bedroom box with a kitchen only separated from the lounge room by a counter island and the wall seeping out into what was a mediocre attempt at an archway. It didn’t have internal heating, their backyard was composed of a cracked pathway leading from the back door to the rickety gate set in the rickety fence, a long forgotten flowerbed overflowing with weeds, and dirt accompanied by patches of grass. The front yard was non-existent, only a gravel pathway leading from the two cement steps that preceded the front door to the public walkway colouring what was more patchy dirt. Of course there was the driveway, but the rough grey asphalt riddled with spidery cracks was nothing to bang on about. Dean was pretty sure- no, _very_ sure- that even the road in front of his house had plenty of potholes and bumps, and the _STOP_ sign at the end had its paint peeling so badly it pretty much read _S OO_. His house- God, even his _street_ , couldn’t get any more pathetic.

Castiel probably lived in a three-storey mansion. From what Dean knew, Castiel lived with Gabriel and his other older brother Michael. He also found out somewhere along the line that Castiel had a sister, and she married her high school sweetheart and moved in with her husband, although she drops in on her brothers twice a week to check that they haven’t destroyed the house. Dean desperately wanted to ask what happened to their parents, but he knew better than anyone that that was a touchy subject and, back when he first met him Gabriel had respected his privacy, so now it was Dean’s turn to respect his.

So Castiel probably had a big house. Dean figured he had money. At least, his family had money. Gabriel had started up his own business after all, which meant he had probably gone to college, and Castiel was at college, so it was logical to assume that Michael at the mysterious sister had gone to college. Ergo, money. And, ergo, they did not socially associate with people like Dean Winchester.

Jesus H Christ, they probably had lawn ornaments.

* * *

By the time Sam got home, Dean was cooking dinner, jigging a little to the music that was playing as he moved between the counter and the stove. Sometimes Gabriel let him play his music when they had downtime at the café now, so he had made a ‘family friendly’ playlist to play out loud, which Sam insisted he play at home now, too. This had been a necessary evil for Dean because one time _Cherry Pie_ had been playing as a customer came in one Saturday morning and they had proceeded to rant at Dean (who had been the only one behind the counter as Castiel and Gabriel were sorting things out in the back room) about how vulgar his music was and what was he- a _teenager_ \- doing listening to music like that? What if there had been children around? How would he, Dean, feel if he tainted the innocence of a child? Did Dean even understand the song? How could he when he was, in fact, still a child himself?

The customer had ended up leaving without purchasing anything (Dean figured they hadn’t wanted their order tainted by someone who listened to such disgusting tunes) but had pressed a pamphlet into Dean’s hands when they’d finished raving at him. Once the bell’s tinkle had signalled that they had truly left, Dean took one look at the words on the front of the flyer ( _Even sinners can repent!_ ) before throwing it into the bin and shrugging the whole confrontation off. When he recounted the ordeal to Gabriel and Castiel, Gabriel could only choke out a few syllables before laughter closed his vocal cords and he could only sputter for the next few moments. Castiel had a pitying look on his face and made an aborted movement, as if he wanted to touch Dean’s arm.

“You okay?” He’d rumbled. Dean had blinked and cocked an eyebrow.

“Yeah dude, of course,” Dean had replied. Castiel had shrugged and then, it seemed, let himself laugh at the situation.

“It’s just that customers yelling at you can be… upsetting.” There had been a hum of amusement underlying Castiel’s tone, and his blue eyes were glimmering. “Maybe it would be best to make a… safe for work playlist.”

Dean had pouted. “That’s no fun,” He’d tutted, but Castiel had just looked at him, and Dean had known he was right. “Yeah, yeah, okay,”

And Sam had approved. “That Cas is a smart one,” He’d said to Dean, side-eyeing him that night as they sat side-by-side, going through Dean’s music and choosing ‘appropriate’ songs. Apparently Sam thought Dean needed help with this task because he didn’t know which songs were appropriate and which were not.

Dean had narrowed his eyes at him. “Yeah, he is.” Was all Dean gave him back. Sam had beamed, and Dean had almost started banging his forehead against the table.

But now, Sam was beaming for a different reason. “How was the hot date?” Dean grinned over his shoulder as Sam practically floated into the kitchen. At the sound of Dean’s voice, though, Sam’s face lost its dreamy expression and he rolled his eyes at his brother.

“It wasn’t a date, jerk,” He said, leaning on the counter. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken. And if it wasn’t a date, why do you look high?” Dean snorted. “Wait,” He narrowed his eyes at his brother. “You’re not high, are you?” Sam didn’t even bother answering, just tossed Dean a disgusted look. “You’re right,” Dean nodded. “You’re not that cool.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam huffed. “What did you do today?”

“Sat around. Did a little homework.” He unlocked his phone and spun it to face Sam. “Garth and Bess sent me this,”

“Oh that’s nice,” Sam smiled at the photo. “Looks cold.”

“Yup,” Dean locked his phone again and returned to the chicken.

“Did you text anyone else today?” Sam’s tone was sly as he perched in one of the chairs by the table and Dean sighed, prodding the chicken with a little bit more force than necessary. He knew what Sam was getting at, and he _really_ didn’t want to go there.

“I texted Benny a little,” Dean said, hoping to distract Sam.

“I don’t like him,” Sam chimed in immediately, sounding grouchy, and Dean smiled as he checked the greens steaming on the stove. Sam had met Benny once, when he had come round to borrow Dean’s english notes, and Sam had immediately disliked him. To Sam, anyone who could ‘permanently misplace’ a book, especially a _school book_ , was bad news.

“I know.” Dean hummed into the vapour as he lifted the lid of a saucepan. “It’s a good thing _I’m_ his friend and you’re not, then, hey?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sam tutted, and Dean could practically sense that his brother’s arms were drawn defensively across his chest. Dean smirked with pride at the fact that he had successfully distracted his brother while he stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon.

“Have you heard from Cas?” Sam asked impetuously. Dean’s smirk fell off his face and he pursed his lips. That’ll teach him for counting his chickens before they’d hatched.

“Not even being subtle now, are ya, Sport?” Dean grumbled, shoulders hunching in defence.

“Oh come _on_ , Dean,” Sam, it seemed, had had enough of his shit. “Just _talk_ to me!”

“ _Why_?” Dean finally turned to face Sam, though he probably would have looked less menacing if he hadn’t had a wooden spoon clutched in one hand and an oven mitt on the other. “Why is this _so_ important to talk about?”

“Because we don’t _talk_ , Dean!” Sam said back just as hotly, eyebrows low on his forehead in a frown. “And you need to talk about this!”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Dean threw his head back in exasperation. He wasn’t even angry at Sam, just pissed off that he was in this situation.

“It’s not like you talk to me either!” Dean pointed out, and Sam, instead of arguing back, agreed.

“That’s true.” Sam nodded. “Okay. I’ll go first then.” Dean turned back to the chicken and tried to accept not only the fact that he’d lost the argument but also that he’d have to sit through Sam talk about his _feelings_.

“I really like Jessica.” Sam started, and Dean considered burning himself on the stove just to get out of this conversation. “She’s smart, funny, and really pretty. I think there’s something there.” Sam prattled on. “She even invited me to her house for Christmas.”

“Wait,” Dean turned back around, forgetting his discomfort at the conversation for a moment. “What?”

Sam shrugged. “When I was over there today her mum came home from shopping with like a bajillion groceries and they were for this giant Christmas lunch thing Jess’s family does and I told her we’d never had a proper Christmas lunch like that and she invited me over.”

Dean was silent for a moment, more terrified at the prospect of a Christmas alone with his father than he thought he would be. “And?” He prompted. Sam looked up from where he’d been staring at the countertop.

“And?” Sam repeated blankly.

“What did you say?” Dean blurted out, clenching his hand into a fist, causing the oven mitt to look comical where it flopped over his hand.

Sam looked hurt. “You didn’t really think I’d abandon you guys for _Christmas_ , did you?”

Dean immediately felt ashamed. “Sorry.” He said. Sam shrugged it off.

“S’okay,” He answered. “It’s your turn now, anyway.”

Dean whined. “Do I have to?” He grumbled.

“Yes,”

“I hate you.”

“I know. Now start talking.”

“Uh…” Dean felt his face heat up, and he rolled his lips between his teeth nervously.  “I- I don’t know what to say.”

“Well…” Sam’s eyes were unfocused for a moment while his brain worked. “Start with something simple.”

“Like what?” Dean turned back to the oven and opened it to check the potatoes. He felt the conversation might be a little easier now that Sam was directing flow. All he had to do was awkwardly answer questions. He didn’t even have to look at his brother.

“How long have you liked boys?” Sam came out with in a rush, though Dean could tell by his tone that he was trying to sound as casual as he could.

Dean banged his head on the lip of the counter as he abruptly stood up. “ _Jesus, Sam_!” Dean spat through gritted teeth as he rubbed the sore spot on his head.

“What?” Sam asked innocently, wincing in sympathy.

“Because I thought- I thought we were gonna talk about Cas or something!” Dean knew his face was bright red saying those words, but, even in the Hell he was trapped in, he’d rather talk about how awesome Castiel was than what Sam had on his mind.

“Well, that too.” Sam thought for a beat, and Dean had a moment of clarity that his brother was _thirteen_. Why didn’t he get a normal brother who only wanted to talk about boobs and video games? What God gave him this kid who talked about _feelings_ and was more mentally mature than he was?

“Listen, Sam…” Dean sighed, taking his hand down from his head and hoping it wouldn’t turn into a lump. “This is stupid. No-” He quelled Sam’s rising protests with the hand encased in the oven mitt. “I know it’s not sucky for you, but, just- I don’t-” He took a breath and spoke to the ceiling. “Talking is not my strong point, Sam.”

“Yeah, I can see that, dingus.” Sam, for his part, looked like he knew this was coming. “I’m just surprised you haven’t kicked me out yet.”

“Guess I just keep surprising you more and more lately,” Dean grumbled.

“I don’t mind.” Sam swung his feet and drummed a short tune into the table. “You cook good food and pay the bills, so I guess I can let you off if you don’t wanna talk.”

“Dude,” Dean stared at him in disbelief. “You just fought so hard to make me talk to you and now you’re all ‘ _who gives a shit?_ ’ Jeez, Sam, I hope Jess knows you’ve got commitment issues.”

“No,” Sam smiled at him and Dean couldn’t even muster up enough rage to be angry. “It’s just that you talked with me today Dean, and it was good.”

“What, like, _good growth, I’m prouda you, Deanie_ ” Dean snorted, pretending to vomit onto the chicken cooking on the stove.

“Dude,” Sam just shook his head. “Don’t make me kick _you_ out.” And apparently that was the end of his argument.

* * *

“ _Hark! The herald angels sing Glory to the newborn King!_ ” Gabriel warbled along as the carol played from the speakers. Dean took a deep breath through his nose as he frothed some milk by the coffee machine while Gabriel fished around in the cabinet beside him, the fluff ball attached to the apex of his Christmas hat dangling by the corner of his mouth as he bopped his head to the music. Dean, in comparison, was almost rigidly still, Christmas hat sat snugly on his head, mouth pressed in a hard line as he stared at the milk swilling around the stainless steel jug. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw Castiel humming along to the carol, hips swaying ever so slightly as he opened the drawer as he searched for a clean cloth to wipe down tables with.

Dean didn’t know any Christmas carols. Sure, he could recognise some of the tunes and, if you gave him a minute, he’d be able to tell you if it was _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ or _Deck the Halls_ playing. But he didn’t _know_ any. When he had walked into the café to start his shift, he had been greeted by a blast of _Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer_ and Gabriel belting out the lyrics as he scrubbed down the coffee machine. He had looked up as Dean walked in and beamed, but the smile dropped off his face almost as fast as it appeared and he narrowed his eyes as he gave Dean a quick once over. Dean, in return, fished his Christmas hat out from where it had been stuffed in his pocket and waved it at his manager, watching as Gabriel’s face lit up.

And then Castiel had walked out of the back room, seen Gabriel’s ecstatic grin and Dean’s Christmas hat, and promptly scowled so fiercely at Dean he felt like he’d done something to personally offend the guy. And, five minutes later, when he and Gabriel were either side of Castiel, both chanting “Put it on! Put it on!” as Gabriel waved a spare Christmas hat under his brother’s nose, Dean thought maybe he _was_ personally offending him. But then Castiel, fuming all the while, stuffed the hat on and all guilt was washed out of Dean’s mind as Castiel glowered at him.

“I’m blaming you for this,” Castiel told Dean, clenching his fists by his sides. Dean sputtered a laugh and, in a feat of carefree euphoria, reached out and adjusted the hat, pulling it lower so it sat more comfortably on Castiel’s permanently windswept hair.

“Just making sure it doesn’t fall off,” Dean smiled smugly at the other guy, before winking and going to take an order at the counter.

In spite of his initial grouchiness, Castiel kept his hat on until they shut up shop at the end of the day. It had been a good shift, and despite Dean awkwardly avoiding singing along to Christmas carols, it had been fairly enjoyable.

“Excited for Christmas tomorrow?” Gabriel asked as Dean stacked chairs out in the dining room.

“Meh, I guess,” Dean shrugged and flipped a chair, sliding the seat onto the tabletop. “It’ll be nice just to hang with dad and Sam.” He smiled and moved on to the last table left. “What about you? Do you guys have any plans?”

“Just lunch really. Anna’s coming round with the hubby, but that’s all. Well, that’s all we know of. You just never know who could show up at Novak Christmas.” Gabriel ended his answer with an eye roll, and Castiel nodded in agreement.

“All in all, should be pretty chill though.” Gabriel started counting the till while Castiel began sorting through the food in the display cabinet. Castiel hummed the affirmative as Dean stacked the last table and moved to the back room to collect his things.

“Sounds nice,” Dean returned with his stuff and began threading his arms through their corresponding holes in his leather jacket.

“Want a lift home?” Castiel leant a hip against the counter and asked the question he asked Dean every shift, while passing Dean the goodies he’d scrounged up for him.

“You kiddin’?” Dean nodded his thanks whilst looking out the window to the dark street. “It’s a great night for a walk.”

“It’s freezing,” Castiel pursed his lips, and Gabriel tried to pretend he wasn’t listening while he sorted the cash.

“Good thing I brought a hat.” Dean waved the Christmas hat at Castiel, smirking smugly. Castiel looked like he was about to argue further, then just shook his head and smiled. He hadn’t won this argument before and he hadn’t really expected to tonight.

“Have a safe walk then, Dean.” He said, turning back to the display cabinet. “And Merry Christmas.”

“You too, Cas,” Dean smiled. Gabriel cleared his throat from the till and Dean felt his face flush. “And- And you, Gabe,” He tacked it on, although even he knew it sounded pathetic.

“Yeah, Deano,” Gabriel snorted, waving him out. “Have a good one.”

The air was sharp in his lungs as Dean pushed his way through the door, hearing the (not so annoying anymore) tinkle of the bell as he left. He looked up at the night sky as he dug his hands into his pockets and saw a thick layer of navy cloud, no stars in sight. Wrinkling his nose, he started walking quickly towards home. Castiel hadn’t been lying. It was glacial outside; Dean’s fingertips were already prickling in the air, and he could feel his cheeks burning with cold. It was definitely going to snow tomorrow.

Despite the potential frostbite, Dean smiled. He was walking faster than he usually would to get home from a Monday shift, and that was because his dad was home. They hadn’t seen John for a week and a half, and though John had cancelled on them before, he hadn’t since they had been back in Kansas, and Dean knew he would definitely be home for Christmas.

The first flurries of snow had begun to fall just before Dean rounded the bend of his street. Dean paused, just for a moment, to snap a picture of the swirling flakes to send to Bess- she hadn’t believed it would snow in Kansas- and then shrugged and sent it to Castiel, too- who was now just _Cas_ in his phone- with the caption ‘ _what a beautiful night for a walk_ ’, grinning to himself as he did so.

And then he rounded the corner, still beaming, and looked up, ready to see the Impala sitting in her spot as she glinted in the light of the streetlamp, snow starting to collect in the divots of the windows.

His stomach plummeted to his feet and he felt numb as he stared. He swallowed once before a sick feeling of hurt spread through him from his heart to the tips of his fingers. His mouth, which he had had sealed shut against the painfully cold air, opened in a _whoosh_ of air, and he felt the frozen air bite his cheeks and his lungs and he took in deep breaths, staring at the empty driveway.

Morose, Dean blinked hard and shut his mouth with a snap. He felt his phone buzz with a text, but he just shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans and rolled his lips between his teeth before continuing to walk down the sidewalk, albeit at a slower pace than before. He tried to console the tide of feelings within, telling himself that his dad was just late or caught up, and just because it was -now he checked his phone, seeing the time and a notification telling him _Cas_ had replied, but he didn’t want to see any texts right now, so he put his phone back into his pocket- just because it was 8.26pm on Christmas Eve didn’t mean John wasn’t going to be home for Christmas. It was going to be fine.

“Sam?” Dean opened the front door, toeing off his boots and wandering inside. He found Sam curled up on the couch staring at the TV, duvet thrown over himself so only his head poked out. On the wall by the window was one of those plastic tries-almost-too-hard-to-be-real holly wreaths that Sam and Dean had stuck there two days ago in lieu of a Christmas tree. Its fake brambles and berries looked possibly even more fake in the light of the flickering program on the television.

“Hey dude,” Dean gave a small smile and lifted the blanket up, scooching under so he was next to his brother.

“Ew, you’re cold,” Sam replied, wrinkling his nose but not moving away. Dean cleared his throat. The atmosphere was quiet, and they both knew why, but they refused to acknowledge it out loud. He’d be back. They knew it.

* * *

Dean did a last check of the house for the night, checking the locks on the front and back doors and making sure all the curtains were closed. He trotted around in his socks, moving fast because it was cold and all he wanted to do was get into bed. Sam was already asleep, having given up on waiting at around 10.30, patting Dean’s arm and telling him he’d better have remembered to get him a present for tomorrow.

Finally in bed, Dean sat for a moment, chewing his lip, feeling even more sadness and worry than before. Alone with his thoughts was never a good place for Dean.

He unlocked his phone. There was still a little notification bubble above his texts, but he didn’t open it. Instead, he dialled a number he had learnt off by heart and pressed his phone to his ear, holding his breath as it rang.

And rang.

And _rang_.

“ _This is John Winchester, leave_ -” Dean tore his phone away from his ear and hung up on the pre-recorded voicemail message, watching the blank screen with a look of disgust on his face. He let out the breath he’d been holding, only to take in another deep one. He dialled again.

This time it rang once, before the same “ _This is J_ -”. Dean slammed his phone down on his nightstand, squeezing his eyes shut. His dad hung up on him. His dad fucking _hung up on him without even answering_.

He took a shuddering breath in, bringing his knees up and resting his forehead on them, arms about his head. His eyes were squeezed shut so tight that he could see pinpricks of light in the oblivion behind his eyelids, and his teeth were digging into his bottom lip, the pain the only thing keeping him grounded.

Eventually, he gave up and laid down, tucking his spare pillow along his back and pulling the blanket up to his chin. He drew his knees up to his chest and waited, still a tiny spark of hope in his chest, telling him his dad would call back, that he was just driving and he would call him back. He would.

And that made it so much worse that, when Dean finally fell asleep, no call had come through and he was that much more defeated.

* * *

The sound of Sam’s bellowing acted as Dean’s alarm on Christmas morning.

“He’s not here!” Sam stormed into Dean’s room, slamming the door open so hard it bounced off the wall and he had to catch it before it hit him on the rebound.

“Wha?” Dean lifted his head up off the pillow and gazed at Sam drunkenly, head swimming from too few hours of sleep.

“Dad!” Sam was fuming, and that woke Dean up more than anything. Dean rolled off his stomach and sat up, rubbing an eye with the heel of one hand, supporting himself with the other. “He’s. Not. _Here_!”

“Sam, calm down,” Dean muttered, wincing at the throbbing starting up in his skull. “What time is it?” He swore to God if it was ass o’clock in the morning and Sam was flipping out, he was going to slap that kid.

“Ten!” Sam snarled, pulling on the hem of the shirt he slept in. Dean was finally awake enough to function, and he felt a sick feeling of anger and regret fill his stomach. Jeez, what a way to wake up.

“Have-” Dean swallowed, his mouth parched from sleep, voice scratchy. “Have you called him?”

“Why would I want to speak to him, Dean?” Sam scoffed. “If he doesn’t show up for _Christmas_ I doubt he wants to talk to us.” Sam’s tone petered out from fury to hurt, and Dean just sat for a moment and stared at his little brother.

“Sam-”

“No, Dean,” Sam scrubbed the back of one hand across his eyes, and Dean knew he hated hearing the waver in his voice. “Just- Lemme go,” With that he turned and left, and Dean continued to stare after him for a moment before shaking himself fully awake and grabbing his phone off the bedside table.

 _Seven texts, no missed calls_ flashed up at him from the screen as he gritted his teeth and hunted around the room for his jeans, trying to block last night’s apparently futile efforts from his mind. Ignoring the text messages once he saw they weren’t from his father, he punched in John’s number, bouncing on the spot to get his jeans on, jamming his phone between his ear and his shoulder to leave his hands free.

“ _This is John Winchester, leave a message_.” His phone told him, and he hung up before the beep without saying a word, worry beginning to gnaw at his insides. It wasn’t like John to miss this many phone calls. Shrugging on a thin shirt and an old hoodie, Dean made his way out to the lounge room, where Sam was curled up on the couch, fully dressed.

“Sam,” Dean tapped his phone nervously on his thigh, heart thudding at the prospect that something might have happened to John. Sam looked up at him, eyes wide and filled with anger and resentment from behind his stupid hair, and Dean just had to try one more time. He dialled.

The dial tone was loud in his ear as he counted out the rings. _One, two, three…_ Dean was faced with crushing worry again when, finally, the phone was picked up. Using two hands, Dean pressed his phone closer to his ear, turning his back to Sam, but not before he saw his little brother sit up, eyes flaring with hope.

There was a lot of rustling and one muted thump, like someone dropped the phone, before a croaky voice said “ _Hello?_ ” and Dean’s heart plummeted to his feet. Again.

“Dad?” Dean didn’t know why he said it as a question. He would know John’s voice anywhere, and this was definitely his father, but he felt like he just had to clarify that it was really his dad that sounded like that.

“ _Dean?_ ” John’s voice crackled, like he was speaking through cellophane.

“Yeah dad, it’s me.” Dean frowned, and the worry that had initially taken hold of him started to ebb, suspicion taking its place. It had sounded like he’d just woken his father up, but that couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.

“ _Son_ ,” John coughed, and Dean bit his tongue, casting Sam a quick glance before striding out of the room and sliding his boots onto his bare feet before slipping out the back door.

The air was bitterly cold outside, and snowflakes was lightly falling from the pearly grey sky. The yard was icy, a thin layer of snow and brittle crystal on the ground, and Dean almost slipped on the cement stair outside the back door. It smelt _cold_ outside and he tensed his shoulders, shivering immediately in the thin clothes he had on. His fingertips were burning already from the cold, and he could see his breath puffing out in short pants as he paced the small backyard.

“Dad where are you?” He hissed into the phone, half furious with his father, half unwilling to open his gritted teeth against the cold.

“ _Dean_ -” John started, but at that moment, Dean glanced at the window above the kitchen sink to see Sam duck out of sight, the dingy lace curtain falling back into place as Sam let it go.

Anger filled Dean’s gut, erasing the last traces of worry, and he set his chin and pressed his phone close to his cheek. “Don’t give me some lame excuse dad,” Dean was almost shocked at the words that came out of his mouth, but there was no going back now, so he could only continue. “It’s Christmas and you _promised_ you’d be back yesterday. We’re both waiting for you. Where are you?”

There was silence on the line, and Dean winced as he was sure he was going to get chewed out for using that tone against his father. And then John sighed, and Dean bit his tongue as he waited for a response.

“ _I’m still in Oregon_.” John answered, and Dean felt his heart thud before a heavy weight settled on his chest. He opened his mouth but no words came out. He glanced back at the window and saw Sam watching him again, not even bothering to get out of sight this time. His teeth started to chatter with the cold, but he hardly felt it now. All he felt was the crushing weight of the fact that his dad was more than a day’s drive away.

Sam was going to be so disappointed.

“Dad…” Dean found his voice again around his chattering teeth. “Dad, that’s-”

“ _A twenty-eight hour drive with no delays_.” John answered, and of course he knew. Dean felt like either sinking to his knees in despair or screaming at his dad, but he knew he couldn’t do either. Sam was watching.

His lips trembled, and he didn’t even bother trying to convince himself it was because of the cold. “Why, dad? Why are you still there?”

“ _What do you want me to say, Dean?_ ” John’s voice finally found the edge of anger Dean had come to associate with his father and alcohol. That made the situation even worse. “ _I got caught up in the case. It took longer than I expected._ ” There was no apology in there, but Dean didn’t expect one.

“You know,” Dean felt a twisted smile appear on his face as he stood still, glaring at the back gate. Snow was still falling, and he blinked as snowflakes caught in his eyelashes. “I actually believed you when you said this year would be different.”

“ _Dean_ -” He heard the reproach in John’s voice, but he just kept going.

“But I guess this year is different. I mean,” He let out a chuckle- it was either that or a sob. “You’ve never missed Christmas before.” He swallowed. “Good job, dad.” He set his jaw when he heard his voice waver on the last word, and he blinked, the monochrome of the backyard making him squint.

“ _Dean, no_ -” John started, but Dean didn’t care about consequences anymore. He didn’t want to hear anything else his father had to say.

“Merry Christmas, sir.” He deadpanned into the receiver, and then hung up, taking a breath and trying to control himself. His mouth was trembling, throat clicking as he swallowed. And then he turned and walked to the door, ready to face Sam and to feel even worse.

* * *

“That’s _bullshit_.” Sam snarled, standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands balled into fists at his sides.

“I know Sam, but-” Dean’s voice, in comparison to Sam’s, was soft and defeated.

“If you defend him Dean, I swear to _God_ -” Sam started, but couldn’t even finish his sentence. He let out a furious huff of air and then stormed off, stomping down the hall. Dean followed.

“No Sam, I wasn’t defending him.” Dean said earnestly to his brother’s back. Sam reached his room and went straight for his cupboard, throwing off his thin sweater to replace it with a thick flannel and, on top of that, a heavy green jacket. He already had jeans and socks on, and once he was finished he grabbed a beanie and his keys off his desk and pushed back past Dean out into the hall.

“It sounded like you were.” Sam’s expression was dark as he shoved on his boots, and Dean watched, speechless. Only when Sam opened the front door did he speak up.

“Where are you going?” Dean sputtered after Sam, thankful his boots were still on his feet from before. Jogging after his brother, Dean locked the front door and followed, staying a pace or two behind Sam as he strode purposefully down the path.

“To Jess’s.” Sam gritted out, pulling the beanie down over his hair and cramming his hands in his pockets.

Dean’s mouth opened, but, again, no sound came out. It felt like the ground had just been swept out from under his feet and he had plummeted into nothing as he realised what his brother was saying. He didn’t realise it was possible, but he felt even worse than before. He cursed himself. He had, naturally, expected Sam to be angry. But not this. He hadn’t expected this, and for that, he berated himself.

Sam was abandoning him. On _Christmas_. First his father, then his brother- he wasn’t worth anything, was he?

As they rounded a corner, Sam glanced behind him at Dean, and his lips trembled. “Dean, I’m sorry.” He said, and Dean pressed his lips together as he followed him, still, because it was the only thing he could do. “But I- I just can’t stay in that house today. I need to get away.”

 _To someone else’s family_ , Dean almost said, but knew if he did it would lead to a fight, and he didn’t have enough in him to fight Sam right now. So he just continued to walk behind him, even though he knew he should turn around and go home. But there was nothing for him there, not when Sam was gone.

They were entering the nicer district of town, houses with lush front yards and porches and legitimate Christmas decorations. Snow was still falling, and Dean was beginning to shiver again. He knew his cheeks would start to flush soon, and his fingers were hurting with a biting pressure from the cold. Sam glanced at him again, pity in his eyes.

“You should go home, Dean. You’ll freeze.” He said, and Dean just shook his head.

“No keys,” He murmured, the best excuse he could come up with.

After a few more minutes of walking with a painful silence, Sam stepped off the sidewalk and onto the neat cobbled path of a quaint two-storey house. There were plenty of cars parked outside, and, even from where they stood, they could hear the laughter and chatter from inside. The whole scene reminded Dean of a Christmas movie, and, somehow, Sam fit right in. But not him.

“Here,” Sam pressed the keys he’d grabbed into Dean’s cold hand, curling his pale fingers around them. “You gotta go home man,” Sam looked up at Dean, concern lining every feature of his thirteen-year-old face. “You’re turning blue.”

“Sure,” Dean murmured, pulling his hand out of Sam’s grip. With nothing else to say, he just turned and walked away, feeling his muscles twitch and jump under his skin as the cold pressed into him from all sides. Sam didn’t call out goodbye, and Dean didn’t look back. He just walked.

* * *

Dean didn’t make it home. There was nothing for him there, so why go? He didn’t know when he stopped walking, but it mustn't have been too far from Jessica Moore’s place, because he knew he was still in the nicer district of town. That was about all he knew though. He just sat down on the curb, feeling the cold from the cement immediately seeping through his jeans, and that was it.

He heard the occasional car go past, the rubber tyres flying over the bitumen, but that was all. There wasn’t much wind, thankfully, and Dean just tucked his hands to his chest and leant over his knees, pressing them against his hands, and stared as the snow began to collect around his boots.

He didn’t feel sad. He didn’t _feel_. He knew he could, if he let himself, but for now, he just wanted to sit and stare and not think of anything. And so he sat.

At some point, he registered that no cars had really passed him for a while. Because of that, he figured it must be time for Christmas lunch. He hoped Sam was having fun.

At the thought of Sam, the wall in his mind broke and waves of crushing emotion began to flood into him. His breaths turned into shallow pants and his lips began to tremble with more than cold and just when it was about to overwhelm him, a car door slammed and he looked up at the person standing over him.

Because of the light, Dean could only see the person’s figure, the glare from the grey sky haloing the dark hair and erasing the features in shadow. There was snow in his eyelashes, and he blinked rapidly, trying to see the person’s face. Mist floated from his lips, obscuring his vision even further. But then the person spoke, and Dean would know that voice anywhere.

“Dean, Dean,” Castiel’s voice was full of concern, and he crouched down to Dean’s level and Dean could finally see him. His eyebrows were pinched, his whole face displaying the worry his voice had conveyed. He was wearing a pale blue Christmas sweater decorated with white reindeers and snowflakes, and the collar of a blue striped shirt poked over the neckline. He had his usual dark jeans and converse on, and he put his hands on Dean’s knees when Dean didn’t immediately respond, and the warmth bled through instantly, even through the worn denim.

“Dean, are you alright?” Castiel was looking directly into his eyes, the kind of look that mothers gave their children when they were scared.

“‘M fine, C-C-C-” Dean gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t get the syllable out.

“You are so far from fine,” Castiel took Dean’s hands in his own and cupped them together, and Dean felt pinpricks of heat flood into the digits. “You’re blue, Dean. Why are you out in the cold?”

“I’m not sure,” Dean answered, his voice sounding pitiful and small, even to his own ears. He saw Castiel’s face soften, and he felt his own face crumple before he rested his forehead on Castiel’s hands, which were still cupping his own.

“Come on, then,” Castiel said gently, standing and pulling Dean up with him. “Let’s get you home.”

Dean could only follow him to his car, and he didn’t even feel strange that Castiel was still holding onto one of his hands. Castiel didn’t baby him, didn’t open the car door for him or check he was wearing his seatbelt. He treated him like normal- maybe a little more tenderly, but Castiel was only human.

Dean told him his address and Castiel drove smoothly, his car humming quietly as he tried to subtly blast the heat. It was a short drive, but Dean spent the whole time staring at his lap, watching the colour leech slowly back into his fingers. They didn’t talk, Castiel didn’t try to pry anything out of him. But the silence wasn’t uncomfortable, it was… nice.

Dean looked up at last when Castiel murmured “This one?” as he slowed the car to a crawl as they drove down the street.

“Yeah,” Dean replied quietly. “You can pull into the driveway, no one’s home.”

“Oh,” Castiel glanced his way as he pulled onto the cracked cement, and a piece of the puzzle seemed to fall into place for him. “I see.”

“Thanks for the lift,” Dean muttered, eyes burning with embarrassment. He was no longer frozen, though still chilly, and he was beginning to think cognitively again. He felt ashamed all over again, first because he idiotically followed Sam outside when he clearly wanted nothing to do with his family, secondly because Castiel had found him on the street like some homeless teen and had to drop him off at his loser house on his loser street because he was a giant loser. His lips trembled again as he went to get out of the car, but Castiel’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Dean,” He made the mistake of looking at Castiel, and he had to hold his breath to keep his emotions in check. “Are you…” Dean winced as the words floated out of Castiel’s mouth. He didn’t want his pity, he didn’t want the guy he’d been mooning over the past few months to see him like this. He was pretty sure that after this, after seeing his tiny house and his stupid emotions and his absent family, Castiel would want nothing to do with him. And he wasn’t sure, after everything, that he could handle that.

“Can I come in?” Castiel switched tactics at the end of his sentence, and Dean let out his breath in a huff of surprise.

Before he really knew what he was saying, a “Yeah, sure, if you want,” was coming out of his mouth, and he was stumbling out of the car and to the front door, Sam’s keys in his hands, still in disbelief that Castiel was following him, smiling pleasantly at him whenever he checked over his shoulder to make sure this was real.

Dean gave up. Castiel had already seen the outside of his shitty house, so seeing the cramped inside wouldn’t add too much disgust on top. So he just gave up and, with a defeated set to his shoulders, swung open the door and held it for Castiel while he walked inside.

“Well…” Dean couldn’t think of anything else to say as he watched Castiel gently toe his shoes off a little inside the door.

“How about we get you something warm to drink?” Castiel glanced at him and smiled, but then rolled his lips. “Or was that too forward? This is your house.” He raised his eyebrows shyly at Dean, and for the first time that day, Dean felt a smile twitch the corners of his mouth.

“I think that’s a great idea, Cas,” Dean kicked his boots off, too, and led the way to the kitchen. He didn’t look into the lounge room, where his present for Sam and John, and Sam’s presents, waited under the holly wreath where the boys had put them last night.

“You have a lovely home,” Castiel mentioned as they reached the kitchen. Dean scoffed, and moved to the beaten kettle plugged into the power point above the counter, but Castiel touched his shoulder and said “Why don’t I do that? You take a seat.”

“No, Cas, it’s fine,” Dean said, a little irked. He didn’t like to be coddled. So far Castiel had refrained from babying him, and he didn’t want to feel like an invalid. Even if he may have acted a bit like one.

“Okay, sorry,” Castiel sounded sincere, and his hand slipped from Dean’s shoulder. Dean moved to the sink to fill the kettle while Castiel stood awkwardly where he was. “Where’s your thermostat? Uh, I’m cold.” Dean’s mouth twitched again at the obvious lie coming from Castiel’s mouth. “You don’t mind if we turn the heater on, do you?”

“Uh,” The smile dropped off Dean’s face as he remembered the shit quality of his house. Cringing, he jammed the tap on and filled the kettle before moving it back over to its stand and turning it on and waiting for it to heat. “Yeah, we actually don’t have internal heating…” Dean sighed, feeling his stomach clench again. Castiel’s house probably had a heater vent in every room. His house didn’t even have one.

“That must get annoying,” Castiel remarked, blowing the issue over, and Dean’s anxiety slipped away a little with it.

“Yeah,” Dean turned and leant against the counter, an unexpected warmth filling him as he watched Castiel sitting at his kitchen table, in his house, gazing back at him with a gentle smile. “I mean,” He coughed, blinking himself out of his reverie, but he was still too cold to blush. “We usually, like, drink hot drinks or use blankets and stuff to stay warm.”

“Right,” Castiel hummed as the kettle clicked off, and Dean turned, getting a mug out from the cupboard before pausing.

“Do you want a drink? Tea? Instant coffee?” Dean pursed his lips. He was going to have tea because he didn’t want something as bitter as coffee right now, but he had no idea what Castiel even drank. “I don’t have, uh, the stuff for a vanilla latté,” He huffed out a weak breath of laughter. “Sorry.”

He heard Castiel snort at his weak joke. “Nothing for me, I’m okay, thanks.”

“Alright,” Dean made his drink and moved to the table, carrying his cup with an ease born of practice. He sat somewhat awkwardly and cupped his hands around the mug, looking at the whorls and divots in the table, but he felt Castiel staring at him. He looked up at him, meeting his eyes, challenging him to look away. That would be the normal human reaction. But instead, Castiel just smiled, eyes crinkling up at the corners, and Dean could only gaze back, captivated, at the complete sincerity in his eyes. His lips parted a little, hands growing steadily warmer where they were still cupped around his tea, and they continued to just stare at each other.

Dean felt something inside him crumble. It felt like no one had ever treated him like this, and he knew, rationally, that that wasn’t true. Sam loved him, his father loved him, but that didn’t change what had happened earlier that day. And now, here was Castiel, who had taken him off the street when he hadn’t even needed to stop his car, who had made sure he had gotten inside safely, who was sitting with him, even on Christmas. The day that his own family had abandoned him.

His walls were down, and this allowed him clarity. Sam didn’t need him as much as he once did. Sam was growing up, gaining his own independence, living his own life. And all of this gave Dean a stretch of freedom he hadn’t realised he had been craving until now. Sam didn’t need Dean looking after him twenty-four/seven now. And, finally, Dean could do things for himself.

A smile began to grow on Dean’s face, starting in the corners of his mouth and pushing his cheeks up, lighting up his face like a sunbeam, growing to be all teeth and sparkling eyes as he gazed at Castiel. And it warmed his whole body, from the centre of his chest to the tips of his fingers.

But the heat in his fingers burnt too hot, and he jerked them away from his boiling tea mug sharply, standing from his chair and holding his hands up to his mouth as he turned his back on Castiel. “Shit!” He snapped, all the good feelings flooding from his body. What a time for his fingers to defrost. He wasn’t floating on a cloud- he was there, in his cramped kitchen, wintry white light cascading through the window, illuminating everything in a cold lucidity.

“Dean, are you alright?” Castiel stood up too, and when Dean turned to give him a self-loathing answer, he found that, once again, Castiel had forgotten the rules of personal space.

“Uh,” Dean’s mind was wiped blank by the proximity, and all he could see was _Cas_. He drank it all in, everything he had noticed a thousand times before but never this close. It felt like every nerve in his body was on fire, and he was burning up. “I…” He swallowed, lowering his hands from his mouth, searching Castiel’s eyes with his own. His heart began racing, beating so loudly in his ears he was surprised Castiel couldn’t hear it. His head was spinning as all the feelings from before came flooding back but, because of the moment, there was an element of fear to them. He wanted this. He wanted Castiel. But he wasn’t sure if he could _have_ this. Did Castiel even want him? Did Castiel even feel the same way? Dean’s breathing grew faster and his mouth went dry, and he hoped his confliction wasn’t showing on his face. He didn’t know if he could take this, this _desire_ and form it into something tangible.

And then Castiel tilted his head just the tiniest amount to the side, voice rumbling a quiet “Dean?” and his resolve broke. He _needed_. Leaning forward, Dean kissed him softly, just a touch, firm enough to feel Castiel’s chapped lips, dry but soft against his own, chaste enough that Castiel could pull away at any moment if he wanted to. He closed his eyes and drank in the sensation that were brought on from the slight touch, feeling all his nerve endings alive and sparking where his skin was touching Castiel’s.

For a moment, Dean felt solid, in place, sure of himself. This was satiating a craving he’d had since the day of his interview, an itch he had refrained from scratching until now. This felt _good_ and _right_ , and, even if just for a moment, everything fit together. And then he remembered who he was kissing, and that Castiel had not responded to his touch, and all his fears flooded back to him, and he quickly pulled away, looking at Castiel with alarm as he tried to study his face.

“I-” Dean’s eyes widened, and he swallowed, terrified he’d ruined everything. Castiel was just trying to help him out, and here he was, taking advantage of the situation, mooning all over some guy who was just trying to be nice. Oh God, he’d ruined everything. This was sure to get him fired. He was going to die of shame. “I’m-”

“Why did you stop?” Castiel’s question was abrupt, but Dean saw in his face that Castiel was reading his panic, and was telling him that it was okay. It was more than okay. Castiel wanted this, too. Relief fell like a ton of bricks onto Dean, his shoulders sagging with it, a smile blooming across his face, as radiant as the sun.

Castiel reached up and cupped Dean’s face in both of his hands, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones, the golden skin pale in the winter light streaming through the thin lace curtain of the Winchester’s kitchen. And he grinned right back at Dean, eyes drinking in the features, before tipping his head to the side and bringing Dean’s lips back to his own, fitting their mouths together. His eyes fluttered closed as he drank in all the sensations, all that he was feeling, all of Dean.

This kiss was more solid than the last, and it felt perfect. He could feel Dean smiling against his mouth as he kissed him, and he wanted to commit this feeling to memory: the weight of Dean’s face in his hands, the feeling of their noses bumping, the rolling excitement pressing from his stomach. Dean’s lips were full and plush, still the slightest bit cold, but the difference in temperature only making the feeling spark more, and moving against Castiel’s in a way that only fuelled the fire inside him.

One of Dean’s arms hooked around Castiel’s shoulders, cupping the back of his neck, the other landing modestly high on his waist, thumb pressing so he could feel the pressure even through his sweater. Castiel moved one hand, sliding it down Dean’s back to fit snugly into the back pocket of Dean’s jeans, whilst the other stayed cupping Dean’s cheek. His body was set snugly against Dean’s: there was still space, but with every adjustment, every shift in weight, their chests would bump, hips jostling, knees knocking together, and Castiel loved every moment of it.

Kissing Dean was like walking on the sun. It was warm and comforting but burning and exciting at the same time, and Castiel never wanted it to stop. But Dean was pulling away and he opened his eyes to see Dean grinning at him, and he couldn’t describe the burst of glowing affection he felt as Dean rested his forehead on his, closing his eyes and breathing him in.

“ _Yo, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want_!” Dean and Castiel jumped apart as the Spice Girls blared from Castiel’s pocket, and he winced, shooting a meek look at Dean’s astounded face. He noted Dean’s lips were pinker than usual, slick and shining with spit, and he knew he didn’t look much, if any, better.

“Gabriel pre-programmed his own ringtone into my phone so I would know it was him calling,” Castiel told Dean with a wrinkled nose before fishing his phone out of his pocket.

“Hello?” Castiel pressed his phone to his ear and mouthed _sorry_ at Dean, who had to cover his mouth to stop himself from bursting out with laughter. The fact that Castiel was associated in any way with the Spice Girls was beyond hilarious.

“Yes I know. Yes.” Castiel sighed and rolled his eyes as Dean wiped his wet lips with his thin hoodie’s sleeve. “Okay, okay- Wait, _no_!” His cheeks flushed. “I’ll tell you when I get home. Yes Gabriel,” He rolled his eyes again, but his cheeks stayed stained with colour. “Okay, tell her I’ll be there soon. Goodbye.”

Dean bit his lip to try and restrain his grin as Castiel glared at him. “It’s really not that funny,” Castiel sniffed, but his lips were also twitching, and he couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across his face. “Okay, it kind of is,” He gave in and stepped close to Dean before pressing his mouth to his, smiling fully as Dean responded immediately.

“Didn’t you say you had to go?” Dean murmured against his mouth before holding Castiel’s hips, sliding his hands under his sweater  and thumbing his hipbones through the shirt that was tucked into his pants lazily. Castiel hummed into his mouth and rested his hands on his shoulders.

“I really should go though,” Castiel said after another minute, leaning an inch away from Dean but refusing to open his eyes because then he would really have to go.

“Mm, okay,” Dean squeezed Castiel’s hips and leant after him, nosing the side of his face before resting his forehead on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Dean lifted his head and stared at Castiel. “Why aren’t you with your family already anyway? It’s Christmas.” His mouth twisted with a bitter edge, but he couldn’t hold onto it- he was too blissed out, too happy.

“I always take about an hour every Christmas to just go driving. It allows a peaceful time for me to give thanks and appreciate all I’d received on the day… And I’m boring you, aren’t I?” His eyes glimmered as Dean raised his eyebrows.

“What? No.” Dean’s mouth twisted, and Castiel knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Plus, if you hadn’t gone driving today I’d probably be frozen on the side of the road.” He tried to make a joke about it, but even as the words came out of his mouth he saw Castiel’s expression darken.

“Are you going to be okay if I go?” He asked, leaning back from Dean to look at his whole face, eyes flickering between both of Dean’s.

Dean smiled. “ _Yes_ Cas,” He reached up and took Castiel’s hands off his shoulders, lowering them but not letting them go just yet. “I’ll be A-Okay. I promise.” And he was sincere.

“Okay,” Castiel agreed uncertainly, stepping away from Dean so he had to release his hands. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah dude,” Dean nodded. “I’ll probably just take a nap.”

“Okay,” Castiel appraised him with narrowed eyes, and Dean smiled innocently at him.

Dean walked Castiel to the door, kissing him on the corner of the mouth before waving him out with a content “ _Merry Christmas_ ” and a smile before watching him drive away. And then he did as he said and went to bed, wrapping his duvet tight around himself. Before trying to sleep, however, he pulled out his phone and finally opened the seven text messages he had seen that morning.

He smiled against his pillow as he read _Merry Christmas!_ texts from Garth, Bess, Benny, Charlie, Gabriel and, of course, Castiel. He replied to all of the one’s from his school friends, but decidedly didn’t respond to the Novak brothers. He had already said Merry Christmas to Castiel today, so he felt he could pass on replying to the politely worded ‘ _I hope you have a very Merry Christmas today, Dean._ ’ (Castiel’s second text had been the one he had received the previous night about the snowfall- a sly remark about how Dean would be able to enjoy the snow just as much from the inside of a car) but he knew he would eventually need to reply to Gabriel’s emoticon-filled text. He would do that later, though, after he had taken a nap.

So Dean put his phone on the bedside table, wriggled a little to get more comfortable, and closed his eyes. He could feel the bad thoughts on the edge of his mind and knew they would drown him if he let them. But he didn’t, because he knew that Sam would come home soon, and they’d figure things out, because that’s what they always did. And then he would go to work the next day and see Castiel and figure things out with him, too, because he wanted this to work, he really did.

And then the world would be right again. And maybe it would be a Merry Christmas after all.


	8. Chapter 8

“Castiel!” Anna swooped on him as soon as Castiel walked through the front door, clutching him as tightly as she always did when she hugged him. The smooth voice of Michael Bublé wafted through the Novak house, an annual background feature for every Novak-Milton Christmas.

“Hello, Anna,” Castiel smiled into her hair as he returned her hug. Actually, he hadn’t stopped smiling since he had left the Winchester house, beaming as he drove home, and even Gabriel assaulting him with yet _another_ Christmas hat as soon as he walked in the door couldn’t put a damper on his mood.

“Merry Christmas!” Anna lead the way into the living room, steering Castiel by the arm she still had around his shoulders. Castiel adjusted the offending hat over his wayward hair and nodded to Anna’s husband, who was currently standing off to the side of the lounge room exchanging pleasantries with Michael. Michael raised a dark eyebrow at Castiel’s smile, but said nothing yet as he returned to the conversation, tapping his feet gently to the soft melody of Bublé’s _Silent Night_.

Castiel felt like he was walking on the clouds. His lips were still tingling from kissing Dean, and he felt a prickling on his waist where Dean’s hands had been resting. He wanted to devote all of the past hour to memory- well, almost all of it. He couldn’t describe how scared he had been when he had spotted the familiar hunched figure on the side of the road, shivering violently as he just sat, head down, on the curb.

Castiel felt sick to his stomach and the smile slowly trickled off his face as he remembered how pale Dean’s cheeks had been, how his fingertips had been bone white and trembling, how his normally pink lips had turned dark purple from cold. Even his eyes had been dull, the rich green faded to flat, snowflakes thickly coating his golden-brown lashes in white.

_“Why are you out in the cold?”_

_“I’m not sure,”_

Castiel had met Sam many times when he had come into the café, and he had liked him. The boy had gotten along with them great, joking along with Gabriel, chatting with Castiel, and teasing Dean every time. But it had been affectionate teasing, all smiles and warm eyes, a deep love evident between the two brothers.

Castiel had no idea why Dean had been sitting alone on the side of the road on Christmas Day. Had… Had something happened to Sam? Castiel hadn’t even asked. A swooping feeling in his gut cut through him as he felt a strike of worry for the mop-haired thirteen-year-old.

Just when he was about to mull on it further, Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder. “Cassie!” His brother crowed, and Castiel blinked out of where he had been frowning at their heavily-decorated Christmas tree. He hummed to show he was listening, which seemed to give his brother the affirmative to steer him by the shoulder towards the kitchen.

“Come try my custard, would you?” Gabriel basically force-fed him the yellow goo as soon as they got into the expansive kitchen, the utensil hovering too close to Castiel’s nose in the process of Gabriel spooning it into his open mouth, and Castiel let it sit on his tongue for a second, eyes drifting across the wall as he stood with his signature poker face on.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “It’s too salty, isn’t it?” He clucked his tongue, turning to stir the gravy bubbling on the stove. Lunch looked like it was minutes away. “I’ll add more vanilla.” He paused mid-stir, staring into the depths of the gravy, before turning sharply to Castiel, who had, by now, swallowed his mouthful.

“More vanilla?” He asked seriously. Cooking was about the only thing Gabriel took seriously.

Castiel’s mouth twitched. “No,” He said, licking his lips. “It tastes great.”

Gabriel pointed a finger at him. “You almost _had_ me there, Cassie!” Gabriel shook his head and laughed, before handing Castiel a stack of delicate plates and telling him to start setting the table.

* * *

“So how’s teaching going, sis?” Gabriel asked Anna halfway through chewing a mouthful of perfectly-roasted turkey. Castiel looked up from where he’d been studying the engravings on their gravy boat to listen- he always found his sister’s stories interesting.

“Oh, you know,” Anna rolled her eyes and scooped a forkful of peas up, holding the utensil near her lips at a perfect balance so no peas fell back to the plate. “It’s a class full of senior kids in a public high school doing a compulsory subject. There’s bound to be a few troublemakers.”

Castiel stared at her as she spoke, and something tickled in the back of his mind. Dean. Well, Dean was always on his mind lately, but this was something specific.

After she chewed her mouthful, she continued. “I have these two boys that are so strange. They just go on and on about ghosts and how they’ll become famous and, my _god_ , the way they talk about women when they think I can’t hear them. It’s-” She shuddered. “It’s disgusting.”

 _“And there are these two guys,” Dean told him with a glimmer of deep-seated amusement in his eyes as he leant against the counter, cocoa dusting his apron from the five hot chocolates he had had to make in a row, rotating a milk jug gently in his wide hands as he polished it. “I sit near them in my english and world history classes. They just- they have these_ theories _about ghosts and- what, tulpas or whatchamacallits, and how finding them is gonna make them famous and, dude,” He had hummed with laughter as he gazed at Castiel with a warm smile. “A woman wouldn’t even look in the direction of these douchebags from a distance. They call themselves the Ghostfacers.” He turned to full-blown laughter now, and Castiel drank it in. These quiet talks, these friendly conversations, these made him wish the hours he worked with Dean would crawl by._

“They even call themselves the ‘Ghostfacers’.” Anna made quotation marks with her hands as the words spilled past her lips, cringing with horror at the name.

Castiel’s face lit up with a smile. Could it really be this coincidental? Could Anna _actually_ teach Dean english? The words bubbled on his lips, and he was already certain the answer to his pending question was going to be a _yes_.

Michael chuckled, and Castiel paused, mouth open, as he waited for Michael to speak first. His eldest brother looked fondly at his sister and said, “Are there any good kids in your class?”

 _Kids_. Castiel’s mouth snapped shut, and he rolled his lips between his teeth and his gaze changed from Michael’s sharp face to his own plate. He poked at his buttered beans as he contemplated the word that had come out of Michael’s mouth. _Kids_. He thought about it, and he supposed, that from Michael’s age, they would seem like kids. Hell, from his age some of the people attending high school still seemed like kids.

But not Dean. Dean was- well, mature wasn’t the word, but he was someone who was grown-up. He wasn’t like the other people Castiel remembered from his days in high school- the boys who recoiled and spat at the obvious love between Patroclus and Achilles in the _Iliad_ , the girls who had choked their way through stolen cigarettes to impress their peers. Immature and crude did not even begin to describe most of those people Castiel had shared a cohort with. And these had been people in his private school. Dean was someone who worked four days a week and still made time to pass his senior classes and look out for his little brother. Dean was compassionate, hard-working, and determined, and Castiel was so far gone it was ridiculous.

“Of course there are good kids,” Anna tossed her red hair over her shoulder and Castiel was snapped out of his reverie. “I have an incredibly smart boy who is great in class debates, but never hands in his homework- except for the major assessments, of course- because he insists he’s lost his book.” Anna smiled fondly at the thought of her students.

“And then there’s another student who always brings cookies to class. She’s an absolute doll.” Gabriel’s eyes widened at the mention of cookies, and Castiel knew he’d be baking them nonstop now for the next week. He hoped Dean and Sam liked cookies.

Castiel was almost aching to ask about Dean, but something held him back. He needed to know Anna’s take on him, if he was as alluring at school as he was at the café.

“What about the new kid? You talk about him a lot.” Anna’s husband was a soft-spoken man, polite and well-educated, and he loved every inch of his wife. As Anna gazed over at him after his suggestion, her eyes were just as soft, a smile pushing on the corners of her mouth. _That_ was love; that was what Castiel knew.

“Who, Dean?” Castiel felt his heart thud so forcefully in his chest at Anna’s words he was surprised it didn’t burst free from his chest. He saw Gabriel perk up in his seat as well, eyes alive with interest. “Dean’s something else, I’ll tell you that.”

“Dean Winchester?” Castiel’s mouth had been open, the words on the edge of his lips, but it had been Gabriel who had spoken.

Anna frowned in confusion. “Do you know him?” She asked. Her husband followed the conversation with quiet curiosity, sucking the gravy off his fork as his eyes flicked between Anna and her brother.

“Know him? I _own_ him!” Gabriel cackled to himself in his seat as Castiel rolled his eyes.

“Oh Gabriel,” Castiel huffed, chiding evident in his short phrase. “Dean works with us at the café,” He explained to Anna before popping the last bit of his turkey in his mouth. He felt like he was betraying himself, like his face was broadcasting the message ‘ _I KISSED DEAN WINCHESTER’_ , and his eyes flicked to all the people at the table, trying to see if they saw what was so obvious. He had kissed Dean Winchester. He had _kissed Dean Winchester_. He willed his cheeks not to turn red, for his eyebrows not to quirk or tick, and he felt for sure he was giving himself away.

But they just nodded and Anna continued describing why she liked Dean- he was fun, talkative, and although he didn’t hand in some of his homework, she could now blame Gabriel so he was completely off the hook. Michael was watching his sister talk with interest, his blue eyes- almost identical to Castiel’s own- watching her with an interest only Michael could provide. Gabriel was pouting and trying to argue that Dean had accepted all the hours and hadn’t made a peep of complaint, so he couldn’t be blamed, really. And Anna’s husband was back to focusing on cutting his last morsels of turkey up into appropriate amounts, not even looking at him, let alone giving his attention to the conversation.

No one noticed a thing, and Castiel scooped up the last of his beans and chewed them pensively, thinking hard truths and feeling the tingling in his lips that still hadn’t gone away.

* * *

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greeted, and Dean’s smile was as beautiful as the sun rising through the clouds. Which was surprising, seeing as it was 8 in the morning.

Castiel was standing behind the counter, drumming his fingers on the marble as he waited for any customers to show up. The day after Christmas was always a slow one, and he had no idea why Gabriel opened on the day. They hardly got any customers as no one wanted to venture out in the cold to get coffee or cake, and Castiel was pretty sure Gabriel was just taking a nap in the back room right now anyway.

“Heya, Cas.” Dean nodded in return, shrugging off his heavy coat. Again, there were snowflakes caught in his eyelashes, and his cheeks were red with cold. But this time, he had a snow-speckled beanie on his head, and thick gloves covering his hands. “How’re you doing?” His lips weren’t blue anymore, and as he used his teeth to pull his gloves off, Castiel saw his fingers weren’t marked by cold. He was fine.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Castiel felt himself smile in return, and watched as Dean’s smile grew wider. “How about yourself?”

“Pretty good,” Dean replied, walking around the counter and towards him, and Castiel shifted his weight, excitement thrumming inside him as Dean approached. But before he could come within touching distance, Gabriel emerged from the back room, stopping Dean in his tracks.

“Deano!” Gabriel welcomed as the door swung shut behind him. “I thought I heard your voice!” Dean cringed at the name but turned to Gabriel all the same, and Castiel felt the excitement leave his body, but his heart was still thumping.

“Hey, Gabe.” Dean’s smile was smaller for the older Novak, but no less genuine. “How was your Christmas?”

“Very merry, if I do say,” Gabriel was holding a tray of cookies, wearing oven mitts decorated with candy, and offered them the tray. “So-hot-they’ll-probably-burn-you cookie, anyone?”

Castiel took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the cookies, but stopped there, knowing from experience that Gabriel’s long and probably unnecessary title was most likely truthful about the cookies. Dean, however, shot his hand out and snatched up a biscuit with a craftiness that even surprised Gabriel, his fingers barely brushing the searing hot tray. He still had to juggle it from hand to hand before deeming it cool enough to bite into, so Gabriel still got to laugh at Dean’s affronted expression.

It was no surprise to Gabriel or Castiel that the day after Christmas was long and very quiet. By 10.30, they had had only ten customers in total. Gabriel was perched on the counter, swinging his feet back and forth as he bellowed out the lyrics to a song by The Killers that was being played almost obnoxiously loudly by the speakers seated next to him. Castiel was behind the counter, wiping down surfaces with a cloth, which was deemed as desperately fishing for something to do by both Dean and Gabriel as this was already the third time he had wiped the benchtops. Dean was sweeping, but that was only because the family of four that had just been through had just about thrown all their food onto the floor. Dean wasn’t even sure they had eaten a bite, there were so many crumbs on the ground, not to mention the coffee and hot chocolate spilt on the table. What a waste. Customers were disgusting.

“Do you wanna take a half-day, Dean?” Gabriel asked a little while later. This time he was looking intently at the baked goods in the display fridge.

“Huh?” Dean asked from where he was standing at the counter, polishing the limited sets of knives and forks they had. Castiel also looked up from where he had been scrubbing the stainless steel shelving below the coffee machine.

“Well, I mean…” Gabriel shrugged at him. “It’s just gonna be like this for the rest of the day. You can go home, if you want.”

“Go home when?” Dean put the last knife into its holder and hung the cloth he’d been using over the back of the closest chair to dry.

“Now?” Gabriel shrugged. “It’s like, ten past eleven which means you’ve been working for three-ish hours, which is the time I told you would be the minimum hours of a shift. And,” Gabriel’s face brightened. “It’s actually light outside for you to walk home, for once!”

Dean thought for a second, then rolled his shoulders and nodded a little. “Sure,” He agreed. Castiel felt his heart sink in disappointment, and he turned back to the shelves he was scrubbing with fervour. Dean paused for a moment, almost like he was waiting for something, before continuing. “Um, so you want me to go now?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel went back to poking around the display shelves. “This way, at least one of us can escape the boredom.”

“Okay,” Dean got his things from the back room, and when he returned, there was a grin on his face as he shrugged on his big coat. “Sammy’s gonna be stoked.” A thought seemed to cloud his sunny expression, but it passed quickly. “Hey, mind if I buy some lunch? Sam’s been kickin’ me for not getttin’ him some pumpkin loaf lately.” At the name of the bread his eyes slid over to Castiel and he cocked an eyebrow at him, smirking, before moving over to the counter. “And I’m gonna need somethin’ hot for the walk home.”

“I can give you a lift,” Castiel blurted out, standing out of the crouch he had been in, listening to his knees pop. He cricked his neck to the side as he looked at Dean apprehensively. Something had changed between them since their time spent together the day before, but Castiel didn’t know if that warranted a lift home. He needed to speak with Dean privately, anyway, and this would be the best opportunity.

He saw Gabriel begin to scoff, because, really, why would Dean accept a lift home today of all days, when he hadn’t for three months, but Dean beat him with an answer of “Sure, Cas, that would be great.”

Gabriel looked between them with a confused expression, and Castiel’s heart went to his throat, but luckily Gabriel didn’t _seem_ to come to any conclusions.

“You’re leaving me here _alone_?” He looked like Castiel had personally cancelled Christmas, and Dean grinned next to him as he put his pumpkin bread in a bag. Castiel turned to the coffee machine and began making Dean’s long black without being told to and he rolled his eyes at his brother.

“Yeah, Gabriel, because you’re _so_ busy.” He replied, and he felt Dean slide up beside him, presumably to watch him make his coffee, but his presence was warm and solid against Castiel’s side and he smiled as he stirred sugar into Dean’s coffee. He saw Dean return his smile from the corner of his eye, green eyes sparkling with excitement and anticipation, and he felt his expression dim, his mouth begin to pull down, his heart sinking as he thought about the conversation he was going to have with Dean. The conversation he _had_ to have with Dean.

“I’ll be back soon,” Castiel told a pouting Gabriel once he had handed Dean his coffee, taking off his apron as he did so. Gabriel glowered as he held out a bag of cookies for Dean as he practically bounded to the door, looking much happier than he should, and Castiel felt his chest grow heavier with every step he took.

“ _Fine_ ,” Gabriel huffed as Castiel shrugged on his favourite trench coat and nodded to Dean, who pushed open the door with a tinkle of the bell. He followed him out, and was almost immediately buffeted by a sharp wind that cut straight through all the layers he had on. He wrapped his hands around his body and lead Dean down to his car, unlocking it with fumbling hands as Dean scooted around to the passenger side, balancing his purchases carefully in one hand as he opened the other door.

They were met with nothing but the quiet rumble of the engine as Castiel started the car, and as he turned onto the road he fished for something to say. “So how was, um, the rest of your Christmas, Dean?” He winced a little as the words came out of his mouth and he hoped Dean didn’t think he was prying into the events that had transpired yesterday. Even though he desperately wanted to know what had happened- if something had happened to Sam- he thought casually asking would more likely result in Dean telling him more of the story than asking outright. But he figured since Dean had come to work with a smile, Sam was fine.

“Oh,” Dean paused and Castiel saw that he was looking at him from the corner of his eye as he watched the road. But Dean was smiling, so he suspected he wasn’t about to tell him to fuck off. “It was… alright,” He heard Dean take a breath, and Castiel flicked his gaze up to the rear-view mirror and then to Dean, who was now staring out the window, smile less bright but still on his face.

“Yeah, Sam got home from his friend’s house at, like, six, and yeah. It was alright.” Dean shrugged and Castiel’s eyes snapped back to the road as he felt his stomach sink. He still didn’t know why Dean had almost caught hypothermia, but he was willing to bet Sam being away for half a day was linked to it.

The car was starting to smell like pumpkin loaf and coffee as he turned it smoothly onto Dean’s street (it really was a very short drive from _Slice of Heaven_ ) and pulled up to the curb outside the Winchester house. He turned off the engine and mentally prepared himself for this. He set his jaw and took a deep breath. He could do this. He needed to do this. This was a necessary evil not just for him, but for Dean as well.

He turned to face the other boy only to find Dean already leaning halfway to him, and he had no choice but to accept the kisses that Dean pressed eagerly into his mouth. One of Dean’s arm’s was across the seats, fingers digging into the headrest on Castiel’s side, his other arm angled between them so he could cup Castiel’s jaw in one hand. Dean smelt like leather and pine and coffee grounds and pumpkin loaf, and he tasted faintly like cookies and a lot like coffee. Castiel felt something inside him melt.

Castiel brought his hands off the steering wheel and onto Dean’s shoulders, turning his torso awkwardly in the cramped space so he could touch more of Dean. He closed his eyes and dug his fingertips into the thick coat Dean was wearing, and, oh, how he’d been aching to touch those shoulders since he had graced his hands with their shape the day before. His thumbs skated across the lapels and gently brushed the edges of the necklace Dean never seemed to take off.

When Dean licked across his bottom lip, Castiel opened his mouth almost immediately, and he felt Dean huff a breath of laughter against his mouth. And that’s when Castiel’s eyes snapped open and he pushed Dean off him, not roughly but with enough force that Dean knew this had to stop _now._

The flash of hurt that Castiel saw in Dean’s eyes was enough that he almost pulled Dean back to him to kiss every inch of skin he could. But instead he held Dean at arm’s length and licked his lips, swallowing, steeling himself to do this.

“Dean-” Was the only word he got out before Dean let out a groan. Like, wow, rude. He was speaking.

“Are you alright?” Castiel raised an eyebrow as Dean moved back into his seat and covered his face with his hands.

“Are you like-” Dean huffed. “Are you like, dropping me or something?”

“Dropping you… Off at home?” Castiel didn’t understand.

“No, like,” Dean’s frustrations came out in his tone, and Castiel frowned. Dean took his hands away from his face and Castiel saw the angry red blotching on his cheeks and the set to his jaw. Dean was not happy, but not really furious either. He looked… upset. “Do you not want… This?” He gestured a hand between them, knuckles dusted with freckles, fingers long and blunt, skin still golden but winter-pale.

Castiel almost laughed. He felt disbelief and amusement rack his body, and he _just_ kept it from spewing out of his mouth. Not want Dean? That was impossible. Dean was… a lot of things. He was fun and brave and smart and snarky and a wise-ass and protective of his brother and so _dedicated_ and… Castiel’s thoughts were whirling and he must have made a confused expression as he tried to sort through them because Dean took _something_ he did as an answer.

“Oh _God_ ,” Dean put his palms up to his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyelids. “Are you even _gay_?” Castiel blinked. “Please tell me you weren’t just using me for some… Some ‘ _finding yourself_ ’ bullshit, were you?”

Castiel felt like if his eyebrows went any further up his head they would be in his hair. This was obviously tormenting Dean and it had to stop. “Dean.” He said it short and sharp, snapping Dean out of his ramblings, watching as he lifted his head from his hands and stared at him, now visibly distressed. “Dean,” Castiel repeated, gentler. He took a deep breath, licking his lips and holding Dean’s gaze. “I just… Need to talk to you, okay? This is not… A ‘drop’.” He half-raised a hand, fingers twitching into quotation marks around the word, but it was half-hearted and the hand dropped soon enough.

He took Dean’s continued silence as a green light and ploughed on. “Dean, this is an incredibly difficult decision for me-” Dean winced at his words. “-But I have decided that, for the time being, I cannot… Be with you.” He said it stiffly, promptly, no beating around this bush in case the message got lost.

Dean’s lips were parted, his hands half-lowered from his face, cheeks still pink with worry. His eyebrows pinched downwards and creased his forehead. “Why?” He asked, voice small. Castiel felt his heart thud but he had to stay strong.

“Because… I’m too old for you.” Castiel’s hands clenched into fists where they were now resting on his jeans, and he dug his fingernails into the flesh of his palms.

He was met by silence. Dean was staring at him with incredulity, green eyes wide as he just blinked at him. And then he snapped his jaw shut and seemed to grind his teeth for a second- not angrily, almost like he was thinking- before opening his lips again.

“Seriously?” He grunted, eyes narrowing in disbelief. Castiel adopted an affronted expression. Of course this was serious.

“Yes,” He snapped back, irked that Dean thought he may be joking, or lying to him. He only had Dean’s best interests at heart, really.

Dean’s shoulders sagged with relief and he smiled, but Castiel didn’t know why. “As much as I like you Dean- which is a lot, don’t think otherwise- I will not break the law for you. You’re only seventeen.”

Dean sniggered, and Castiel stared, dumbfounded. This was the last thing he expected. Dean was _laughing_. Had he not heard him properly? Or… Did he mean that little to Dean? No, he didn’t believe that. Dean’s outburst from before proved that he meant _something_ to the other guy.

“That’s okay dude,” Dean shrugged happily and smiled at Castiel, which did nothing to ease his confusion. “I’m eighteen in, like, a month anyway.” Oh.

 _Oh_.

“Oh,” Castiel’s mouth twitched and he tried to restrain his smile. “Well.” He didn’t know what to say. “Good. I guess.” Dean smiled at him, face empty of the anger from before, eyes warmer than a summer’s day. “I should, uh,” Castiel fumbled for the words, which was a strange thing, seeing as he was a linguistics major. “I should get back.”

“Right,” Dean said, a close-lipped smile on his face as he gazed across the small space. Instead of getting out of the car, though, he leant across the space between them, going in for another kiss.

“Dean,” Castiel stopped him gently with a hand on his chest. “What did we _just_ talk about?”

Dean snorted, and it was quite unattractive this close-up. “You sound like a teacher.” He wiggled an eyebrow at Castiel. “So I don’t even get one for the road?” He swayed forward again, towards Castiel’s lips, but Castiel just pushed his away harder.

“No, Dean, you don’t.” He turned his face to the side and tried to resist the urge to pepper Dean’s skin with kisses. He had to do this and it started _now_.

Real hurt flashed through Dean’s face, but what could Castiel do? This wasn’t a game. “Okay then,” Dean’s mouth twisted as he angrily jerked the door handle open to get out of the car. Castiel sighed, his heart sinking, mouth pulling down at the corners as Dean ditched him. This wasn’t how he wanted to leave things with Dean, but what else could he do? The law was the law.

“Thanks for the ride, Cas,” Dean barked, grabbing his coffee and food and slamming the door after him. Castiel watched him walk across his lawn to his small house- it was a nice house, actually, it had smelt like pine and cold air and leather-, rummaging around in his pockets for his house keys. Castiel watched him and he _ached_ \- Dean had left angry and disappointed and probably thought Castiel was some stuck up prick now. He turned to face the wheel and gripped it with his hands. He should probably get back to _Slice of Heaven_ now. Back to reality.

* * *

Dean swore as he hunted blindly around his pockets for his keys. They had to be in one of them. Finally, he discovered them in the back pocket of his jeans, and, grumbling, he shoved the bread and cookies under one arm and balanced his coffee in the other as he jammed them into the lock. He shouldered the door open and stamped the snow and ice off his boots before taking a few steps inside, calling out for Sam that he had come home early and he wasn’t a burglar so please don’t assault him with the baseball bat they keep in dad’s room for exactly this purpose.

“I also have gross pumpkin bread for you!” Dean bellowed to the depths of the house. "...And cookies!" He added on after a beat and cocked his head and almost smiled as he listened to Sam’s answering cheer. He took a swallow of coffee and kicked the door shut behind him, not looking back because did he really just want to watch Castiel drive off? The answer was the same he gave to Sam as he asked if he wanted to split the pumpkin loaf with him.

No, _thank you_.

Sighing, he didn’t bother to take off his boots and walked the short distance to his room to throw his wallet, keys, and phone onto his bed. Just as he was about to follow suit and flop down onto the mattress, there was three sharp knocks on the door, and he groaned loud enough for Sam to hear.

“ _I’m in my pajamas!_ ” Was Sam’s answer, and Dean _ugh_ -ed at him so loudly he wouldn’t be surprised if the person at the door hadn’t heard him. He’d just fuckin’ been at the door, seriously, like, less than a minute ago. This was bullshit.

He stomped back out to the door and wrenched it open, a sour expression on his face. He was in no mood for Jehovah’s Witnesses or Avalon saleswomen today. He was holding his coffee in one hand, the slice of pumpkin loaf and the cookies in separate bags in the other, and probably looked like the world’s most disgruntled teenager.

As soon as he had tugged the door open the whole way and registered exactly who it was on his doorstep, he had his arms full of Castiel and another mouth on his, kissing him to what felt like within an inch of his life. Castiel slid his tongue into his mouth and Dean almost groaned when the other man put a hand on his lower back, pulling his closer. He almost forgot he was holding a large cup of coffee until he almost spilt it all down Castiel’s back when he went to reciprocate his hold. But just when Dean was getting into the swing of things, Castiel pulled away, panting, looking Dean hard in the eyes, a steely, almost mischievous look clear among the bright blue.

“One- and _only_ one- for the road,” Castiel held up a long finger like he was teaching Dean a lesson, and then pulled out of Dean’s arms and back out the door, across the lawn to his car. He didn’t even look back.

Dean watched in a daze, drunk on the high the kisses gave him, enjoying the view through half-lidded eyes. It was only after Castiel had driven away that he had shook himself out of his reverie and could smile about it.

“You smug son of a bitch,” Dean muttered to himself, thinking of how Castiel hadn’t even looked back. He shook his head and stepped back inside, shutting the door behind him.

“Who was that?” Sam asked, emerging from his bedroom true to form, wearing a rumpled grey shirt and dark blue pajama pants, his duvet draped across his shoulders like a cape.

“Oh, no one.” Dean shrugged, and handed him the bread he had still been holding, keeping the bag of cookies in his own hands. He hoped he hadn’t squashed them against Castiel just then. He smiled to himself as Sam grinned and snatched the bread off him before trotting happily down the hall to the kitchen. Dean sipped his coffee and leant back against the door. A month. That’s how long he had to wait. He felt a grin blossom across his face.

It was so going to be worth it.


End file.
